


Silent Scream: a Michael and Daniel Story

by ObsessedtwibrarianOTB



Category: Original Work
Genre: Bondage and Discipline, Child Abuse, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Daniel Hart (OC) - Freeform, F/M, Homophobia, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Michael Golland (OC) - Freeform, Pedophilia, Rape Fantasy, Rape/Non-con Elements, conversion therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2018-08-18 09:48:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 34
Words: 120,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8157827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsessedtwibrarianOTB/pseuds/ObsessedtwibrarianOTB
Summary: Two men hiding dark secrets from their past: one is a talented, seemingly well-adjusted graphic artist who proudly lives his life out of the closet; the other is wealthy, powerful and friendless, isolated behind a self-constructed wall of arrogance and disdain. Both are silently suffering until their paths cross at a company Christmas party. This is a story of acceptance and healing.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is an in-progress story. I am updating slowly because real life takes precedence. But these characters live in my thoughts almost constantly. I just need more quiet time to write than my current life provides. *sigh* 
> 
> There are some things in this story that some might find offensive. If you can't handle the following topics, then just exit out and move on to something else. Here's what you will encounter: 1) child abuse (physical, emotional, and sexual), 2) rape of minors, 3) extreme homophobia, 4) underage sexual exploration, 5) one scene of male/female BDSM not done correctly, 6) criticism of Christian theology, 7) pedophilia, 8) male/male bondage and discipline, 9) domestic violence, and 10) rape fantasy. 
> 
> While writing this story, I imagine Channing Tatum in the role of Daniel Hart, Elia Cometti (an Italian fashion model) in the role of Michael Golland, and Emmy Rossum in the role of Anne Marie Parris. You're free to replace those faces with others of your choice, of course. ;) 
> 
>  
> 
> Also, I have written several flashfics with these characters. Since this multi-chapter story tends to be pretty intense and angsty, I use these one-shots to bring out the fun side of their relationship or delve into an emotional issue just a little bit more. They are not written in any particular order and they're out of sequence with the timeline of the story. Michael and Daniel may be just friends in some, but already lovers in others. These are the little snippets of scenes that float around in my head that I need to just get out on paper before they drive me crazy. lol I think you'd enjoy reading them. The links are at the beginning of the prologue.

**MICHAEL AND DANIEL ONE SHOTS (Probably shouldn't read them until AFTER you've read the main story):**

[Detour: a Michael and Daniel FlashFic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7256611)

[Secrets: a Michael and Daniel Flashfic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7256791)

[Attitude Adjustment: a Michael and Daniel Flashfic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7909303)

[Spontaneity: a Michael and Daniel Flashfic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10368582)

 

**ARTWORK I HAVE CREATED FOR THIS STORY:**

[Fan Art: Silent Scream](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8414857)

 

**Alone**

The feeling consumes,  
You sit there, longing to lash out,  
Fighting to be heard.  
It builds up second by second,  
No one hears your silent scream.

Your heart is empty,  
You push everyone,  
Just making this worse.  
Your tears no longer fall,  
Your heart has frozen.

All people ever do is moan,  
People die…  
Beauty fades…  
Love changes…  
And you will always be alone.

Sharna K. Foan

\---------------------------------------------------

 

 **PROLOGUE:**  

Twelve is a difficult age for a boy. He’s no longer a child, but very far from being a man. He shows his tough exterior to the world, bursting with the rough-and-ready bravado that only the innocent can possess. But inside he’s soft and malleable, still evolving into the adult he’ll one day be. He’s like artists’ clay, a medium that can be lovingly molded into something beautiful, or pounded into the table in an unrecognizable mess.

\--------------------------------

One such boy lies in the grass, unaware the sky above him is blue, but that somber clouds are rolling in. His face is shoved into the ground. His hands are pinned behind him, his thrashing feet finding no purchase to aid in his escape. Clover tickles his nose and foul tasting weeds snake into his mouth. He takes no notice, and instead tries to fight as best as he can. But he’s just a boy, a gangly kid who hasn’t quite grown into his own skin. His arms and legs aren’t yet his allies; his muscles are years away from coming to his aid.

The scared infant who lives inside all little boys (and men), cries out in terror, hoping someone will hear and help him. A huge, calloused hand clamps his mouth shut. His cries muffle and die, as does his hope.

All it takes is one harmless afternoon of playing cops and robbers for a boy’s innocence to be ripped away in a frenzy of violence. He sobs as his pants are torn from his body, and is ashamed of his tears. A breeze suddenly lifts the strong smell of horse dung into the air. It permeates his nostrils, fills his lungs and sears itself into his memory.

The only escape is the small patch of grass in his limited field of vision. Suddenly, that tiny clump of green magnifies and become a small, alien world all its own; the ants are its peaceful inhabitants scurrying around to get their errands done before dinner. He focuses on that minuscule world while the man on top of him grunts and pushes his cock in as far as it will go.

In no time at all, the boy loses his focus: the pain is just too great to escape. He squeezes his eyes shut and does the only thing a twelve year old boy can do: he endures. When it is finally over, he curls up in a ball like the little pill bugs he used to play with when he was small. He pulls everything that’s visible to the world back inside of himself so no one can see.

Then cold drops of water start to splat on his skin. He doesn’t move, not even when the splats become a downpour and the patch of grass turns into a small lake. _Maybe God is cleansing me,_ he thinks, remembering snippets of the Sunday sermons he’d been forced to listen to for years. But inside, he suspects the truth. God isn’t cleansing him. He’s punishing him.

 

* * *

 

Another such boy is lying face down, his legs spread wide, his arms outstretched, the coarse fibers of the maroon carpet scratching against his cheek. Accumulated dust rises up from their depths and tickles his nose, but he dares not sneeze, not in the presence of God.

He strains to keep his focus and pay attention to the prayers. There are so many words, too many for him to remember. The boy hates the priest who is currently praying over him. He uses words like weapons, slashing people to pieces with them, especially twelve year old boys who are on the path to Hell. He stabs his fiery prayers deep into the boy’s gut and rips upward, like the ancient Japanese samurai when they committed suicide with their swords. The words tear at his soul and make him feel ‘less than’, just like the taunts from the hateful boys at his school.

_God loves you, but you are lost! God is affronted by all sin, but especially by yours! Ask for forgiveness, son! Ask and He will restore your soul! Ask and you will be healed of your imperfections! Ask and you will not be denied the Kingdom of Heaven, but will sit on the right hand of God! Your sins can be washed away! Just ask, my son! ASK!!_

He knows what the priest's shouted prayers really mean: ask and you will be made _normal._ The boy knows there is something fundamentally wrong inside of him. He’s always known it. His father knows it, and apparently God does, too. He’s given in to the power of Satan, he’s told, and only his savior, Jesus Christ, can fix him now.

After two days, the boy grows tired of the constant praying and fasting. He’s sick of prostrating himself on the floor before his Lord and Savior and feeling no different than when he arrived. He doesn’t feel cleansed of his sin. He’s still dirty, contaminated. The Holy Spirit doesn’t dwell within him and he doubts it ever will. So, he does the only thing a twelve year old sinner can do: he pulls everything visible to the world back inside of himself where no one can see. Like a castle under siege, he builds a thick wall of protection. No one will ever get inside and discover he is broken and can't be fixed.

He leaves feeling empty and very angry, as he wonders why God couldn't be bothered to make him right in the first damned place.

 

 


	2. The Christmas Party

Daniel was bored and with good reason. Golland Enterprises & Marketing, or GEM as everyone called it, may have been the largest marketing firm on the West Coast but their employee Christmas party sucked ass. If it hadn’t been for his friend Cameron, who’d provided humorous commentary on every hoity-toity snob in attendance, Daniel would have flounced long ago.

Cameron sipped at his drink and leaned closer, his earring catching the light and sparkling just like the mischievous gleam in his green eyes. “This party needs some drag queens to liven it up. Some hot little princesses would work wonders with this uptight bunch, don’t you think?”

Daniel snickered, imagining the reaction of the conservative crowd to one of Felicia Fellatio's performances: shaking her ass in her pink hot pants and matching halter top, in a bleach blonde beehive wig and four-inch spiked heels, lip-synching to Beyonce.  Actually, that sounded pretty fun. He was just about to suggest they ditch this snore fest and hit the clubs when someone grabbed his attention. A slender man in a black tuxedo suddenly appeared in his line of sight. Daniel was riveted as he watched the man smoothly make his way to the buffet table. He seemed to glide, like his feet weren’t even touching the plush carpeting.

“Who is _he_?” Daniel whispered to himself as he followed the man’s progress.

“Who?” Cameron asked, searching the room.

“That man at the buffet table. In the black tux,” Daniel answered softly.

“Every quality cock in this joint has on a black tux, darling,” Cameron quipped, snickering. “Which one?”

“On this side of the table, left side, second from the end.”

Cameron laughed and rolled his eyes. “Oh Dear God in Heaven. Please tell me you are not drooling over _that_ hot mess. That’s Michael Golland, the youngest son of the man who owns this company.”

Cameron called every man who fell short of his idea of sexy a "hot mess", so Daniel ignored his juvenile remark. He followed Michael's progress as he slowly circled the table and inspected the platters of food. He was incredibly graceful, his movements a study of controlled elegance.

“He’s beautiful,” Daniel whispered in awe.

“Oh my GOD, you _are_ drooling!” Cameron yanked at his arm and pulled him back a few feet into a secluded corner, the humor gone from his voice. “Listen to me. You need to stay away from that one. He’s fucked up. A total Ice Prince. You don't want that man's cock up your ass, especially if it’s as cold as the rest of him.”

“But he’s gorgeous,” Daniel repeated softly.

Cameron growled in frustration. “He’s straight and narrow, you idiot. Do you hear what I’m saying?? He’s a first-class homophobic prick. Everybody in this building hates his guts. He’s filthy stinking rich, but he's arrogant, rude, and anti-social. You couldn’t pay any person in this room enough money to hang out with him, but somehow the guy manages to fuck every pussy that meows at him. So, the moral of this story, sweetie, is that he’s not the least bit interested in your Dollar Value Menu dick-and-ball combo, so just forget about him.”

Daniel sighed. Why were all the good men straight? And why was Cameron being such a wet blanket all of a sudden?  “I’m going talk to him,” Daniel said, absent-mindedly handing off his drink to his friend.

“It’s your funeral, darling,” Cameron said to his back, because Daniel was already walking away.

* * *

 

Daniel worked his way to the table and eventually to within spitting distance of his target. People had started to drift away from the buffet, leaving Daniel to wonder if it was the bad food or the even worse company, just as Cameron had said. When Michael sat his empty plate on the table and it looked like he was preparing to leave without even eating anything, Daniel pounced.

“Hello. I’m Daniel Hart.” He stuck out his hand and waited for a response while he took mental notes.

Daniel looked at the world through an artist’s eye, and Michael Golland was a blank canvas begging to be filled with flowing lines, mysterious shadows and vibrant colors. He was Daniel’s same height—an almost even six foot—and elegantly slender. His dark brown hair was cropped short and neatly combed, except for a small cowlick near one corner of his forehead. His clean-shaven jawline was angular and strong—Greek god perfection. The man had a seductively plump bottom lip that made Daniel want to suck it into his mouth and nibble on it awhile. His skin was lightly tanned and looked like it had come from the actual sun and not a salon. But it was his eyes that threw everything off. They were a stunningly clear blue, but cold as the dead of an Alaskan winter, and they were currently staring daggers into Daniel’s face.

“Michael Golland.”

After a very long hesitation, like he'd rather stick his head in a toilet than touch Daniel's skin, he reluctantly, and very briefly, clasped his hand and shook it firmly. He was momentarily surprised at the roughness of Michael’s palm. It was definitely not the pampered softness one would expect from a wealthy man. Daniel watched his eyes, mesmerized by their frigid translucent beauty. Something flickered in them when their hands made contact. Shock? Distaste? It was hard to tell because his eyes went flat again within seconds. He dropped Daniel's hand like it was on fire and picked up his discarded plate. He apparently had second thoughts about eating, because he proceeded to focus his attention on the food spread out on the table.

"What do you want from me?" Michael asked as he chose a couple of wrapped hors d'oeuvres, then moved to the other side of the table, as far away from Daniel as he could get.

 _So much for small talk._ Daniel considered his question, wondering how anyone could possibly be so paranoid and defensive in the first thirty seconds of a casual conversation. He took a few steps toward the end of the table and Michael moved even farther away.

"What makes you think I want something from you?"

He gave Daniel an Are-You-a-Complete-Fucking-Moron look. "Because everyone does."

Daniel frowned, not quite sure how to answer. "I just wanted to meet you. I’ve heard quite a lot about you,” Daniel said, stuffing his hand in his pocket, wishing he never had to wash it again, like some teenage girl who’d just touched her celebrity crush.

“All bad, I’m sure,” Michael said as he moved further down the table.

Daniel decided to close the distance between them. When he circled to the other side, Michael inched farther away, just a few steps, but Daniel noticed. Daniel nodded and smirked. “Well, yeah. Apparently you’re a prick, but I like to make my own judgments about people.”

He might have seen a small glimmer of humor appear in Michael’s eyes, but it was probably just his imagination. He doubted there was any room for warmth in there.

“What’s the verdict?” Michael asked, and there was more disdain in his question than actual curiosity.

Something about his standoffishness intrigued Daniel. He was like one of those guards at Buckingham Palace who wore the same blank face all day long. The man either had some serious walls built around himself or else he was just your ordinary asshole. It was difficult at this point to tell which it was, but Daniel was determined to get some sort of measurable reaction from this cold fish before he left this table.

Daniel looked him straight in the eye and smiled briefly before offering his appraisal. “Well, it's a little soon to know for sure, but from what I've seen already you’re an asshole and proud of it. I think you practice that blank stare in front of the mirror every morning while you shave.”

The corners of Michael’s mouth twitched. He almost smiled and Daniel felt the flush of victory. Finally, a sign there was a human being behind those cold eyes. Then Michael crushed his victory beneath his polished heel. He slowly, and oh so very arrogantly, ran his gaze over Daniel’s body from his head all the way down to his black Converse.

“Are you an employee of GEM?”

His tone suggested Daniel was nothing but a dirty, homeless bum who had somehow managed to sneak past the doorman and into the civilized world for one evening. Daniel resisted the urge to straighten his shoulders and lift his chin. He’d be damned if he was going to puff himself up for this snobby, but wildly handsome, em-effer.

“Of course I’m an employee. Do you think I turned myself into a beetle and flew through the keyhole? I'm not Harry Potter. I had an invitation… _dude_. I’m one of your graphic artists.”

Michael’s eyes narrowed into steel blue slits. A confused frown marred his smooth forehead. “I’m the head of personnel and I know for a fact I didn’t interview you, let alone hire you.”

“No, you didn’t. I would have definitely remembered that.” Daniel smiled, trying to keep the flirting down to a minimum, not sure he was being very successful. His comment was met with the same indifference as before. He cleared his throat and added, “Some fat, bald guy with horn-rimmed glasses did the honors. I forget his name.”

“How long ago was this?” Michael asked sharply.

Daniel was puzzled by the sudden change in his demeanor. Was he angry that Daniel was an employee or angry that he hadn’t been the one to interview and hire him? And why the fuck did it matter anyway?? “The middle of August. The 18th to be exact.”

“Oh, I see,” he said smoothly, his face going bland and uninterested again. “That explains it. I was… _away_ …during that time.”

He hesitated just long enough to make Daniel wonder what he’d been away doing. A harmless vacation in Aspen? Drug and alcohol rehab in Betty Ford? Sex-change operation in Switzerland? Or perhaps he’d gone on a world-wide sojourn in search of a personality. If that was the case, he’d wasted his money. The possibilities were endless with this guy. Daniel snorted silently inside his head and fought the urge to roll his eyes.

“Sooo…what do you recommend?” Daniel asked, changing the subject and glancing at the food spread out on the table.

Michael seemed surprised at the question, like small talk wasn’t something he did very often. But he recovered quickly and the disinterest slipped back into place.  “I've heard the shrimp is excellent,” he answered. “That is, unless you’re allergic, then it will kill you. But don’t expect me to call 911, because, in my opinion, the world needs fewer people who think khakis and tennis shoes are appropriate attire for a formal Christmas party.”

Daniel blinked in astonishment at the unexpected criticism of his clothes. This motherfucker needed a foot shoved up his arrogant ass in a major way. “Did you just insult me??”

Then the asshole did the one thing Daniel didn’t expect. He smiled brilliantly and it made him even more drop-dead gorgeous.  “Yes, I did.”

Daniel saw the silent challenge in his smarmy expression: _And what are you going to do about it?_ Daniel longed to punch him square in his aquiline nose, then throw his fine white china clear across the room. Instead, he held his temper, then looked directly into those icy blue eyes.

“Fuck you."

He watched Michael's face for a reaction. There was none. But the man didn't seem to realize how his eyes gave him away. Or maybe he did? Regardless, there was no missing the gleam in them. The fucker was enjoying himself.

Then his brief bout of good humor evaporated as quickly as it had appeared. “I’ll expect you in my office first thing in the morning. Don’t be late. That annoys me.”

Before Daniel could even open his mouth to ask why he was being summoned, Michael sat his plate of uneaten food on the table, turned his back on him and walked off. He watched him stroll casually across the room and through the doorway as if nothing had happened, as if being a complete asshole to a perfect stranger was absolutely normal for him. But then again, it probably was.

 

* * *

 

  
“My dearest, darling Daniel, you’re alive. I’m positively flabbergasted. Are you sure you still have your balls? Want me to check for you?” Cameron grinned and innocently batted his eyelashes.

Daniel pulled him away from the press of people into a quiet corner. “Will you stop with the gay shit?”

Cameron dropped his flaming gay act and sighed. “So, what did you think of him?”

“I’m dying to draw that man naked. He’s beautiful in a tux. Can you even imagine what he looks like nude?”

Cameron’s jaw dropped. “You can’t be serious. Didn’t you hear a word I said? He’s a hetero-manwhore! He’s never going to take his clothes off for you.”

Daniel sighed out of sheer frustration. The truth hurt.  “All I know is that I could barely breathe the whole time I was talking to him. But if I can’t be his boy toy, I’ll settle for being his friend. That is if I don’t kill the bastard first. He’s a complete jerk.”

The man was a stunning hunk of man flesh and, other than his physical attractiveness, Daniel had no idea why he was so drawn to Michael Golland. Perhaps it was because of his childhood habit of picking up strays and nursing them back to health, or rooting for the underdog because everyone else didn’t. As rude as he'd been, Daniel almost felt sorry for him. He couldn’t imagine being completely friendless in this world; he wondered how anyone’s soul could survive that kind of loneliness. Michael was filthy rich and handsome, but what good was all of that when he seemed to be so miserable in his own skin?

“He seemed a little upset because I’d been hired without his knowledge. He said he was _away_ in August when I had my interview. Do you know where he was?”

Cameron chuckled softly and leaned closer so they couldn’t be overheard. “Oh, he was away all right. His ass was sitting in a jail cell. He beat the shit out of one of his girlfriends and she pressed charges. But Daddy G roared into town on his white Porsche and saved the day. He paid off everyone involved and swept that little 'incident' under their 100% Silk Persian Rug. Sweet little Mikey was back at his desk the next week like nothing had happened.”

Being a rude son-of-a-bitch was one thing, but hitting women was something else entirely. "Why did he do it? Any idea?” Daniel asked, not that the reason mattered. Nothing justified that kind of violence against a woman.

Cameron shrugged. “No one knows the details and the girl isn’t talking.”

Daniel shook his head. A bad feeling was gnawing at the pit of his stomach. “He wants me in his office first thing in the morning. Wonder why?”

Cameron sighed and slapped his thigh in defeat. “Did you open your big mouth and say something you shouldn’t have again? No, don’t even bother answering that. You did. So, he’s probably going to fire your ass for insubordination.”

Cameron looked completely put out with him, but he’d always had trouble with his temper, and his filter seemed to be broken more often than not. Cameron’s eyes widened. “Oh sweet Baby Jesus! You flirted with him, didn’t you? And after I specifically pointed out he was a homophobic prick. Don’t you remember anything I told you about GEM??”

Daniel remembered. When he’d approached Cameron about the working conditions at Golland Enterprises, he’d gotten an education and a half. GEM was well-known among artists as THE place to hone your skills. Their marketing division was world-famous and the demand for high quality graphic designs and logos kept their art department constantly busy.  But GEM was also well-known in the LGBT community for their underhanded discrimination against homosexuals. You had to walk the chalk or risk losing your job over something silly. Apparently, job performance wasn’t as important as who you performed for in the bedroom. Luckily, Daniel had gotten very good at hiding his homosexuality. He wasn’t flamboyant and he purposely suppressed any behavior or appearance that would set off people’s gaydar. But his attraction to Michael had overpowered his common sense. That one flirtatious smile could have sent him over the edge.

“Maybe he just wants to talk to you,” Cameron said, trying to console him. “You know, since he didn’t get to do your actual interview.”

Daniel sighed. “Maybe. Or maybe I should just start packing my shit.”

Cameron clapped a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Let’s get out of this dump and hit Napoleon's. Nobody knows how to party like a club full of hot gay men with tight asses. Have fun tonight and worry about tomorrow another day.”

“Thank you, Scarlet O’Hara,” Daniel said, chuckling. Cameron always found a way to make him laugh. “Let’s bounce.”

 


	3. The Interview

The next morning, Michael was in his office a full two hours before the first employee was due to arrive, irritated and sleep deprived, staring menacingly at the two folders sitting on his desk. It had been a long time since someone had gotten under his skin as badly as Daniel Hart. Most of the people he encountered on a daily basis were spineless cowards. They either cringed when he walked past them or shot him hateful glares, but they never opened their mouths. He wrote them off as unimportant and never gave them another moment’s thought. That hadn’t been the case with Daniel Hart. He'd spent way too much of his spare time thinking of that disrespectful bastard. The man was going to pay for that.

Up until the Christmas party, there had only been one person who he could honestly say he hated and also enjoyed tormenting. Now there were two. Daniel Hart was everything he despised. He was nothing but trailer trash who had the arrogance to think his presence on earth actually meant something, and even worse, he was a faggot. He’d tried to hide it during their conversation, but Michael knew. Knowing was part of his job description and he was determined to find a reason to fire the pushy son-of-a-bitch (before nine o’clock) if it was the last thing he accomplished on this earth.

As the weak winter sun inched over the horizon, bathing the room in a deceptively warm glow, he sipped his coffee and poured over all of the information in Daniel Tobias Hart’s file searching for something he could use as a reason for dismissal. He memorized his resume, took mental notes of his references, read every single letter of recommendation, and scoured his personal history for any familiar names.

Then he turned his attention to Daniel’s art portfolio which contained examples of his work. All perspective artists were required to submit twenty samples in a wide range of mediums to demonstrate not only their skill, but also their versatility. Despite his determination to hate the man and find a way to fire him, he found himself absorbed in Daniel’s art. He was astonished at his talent. Howard had made a wise decision in hiring him. His skill was phenomenal and better than anything Michael had seen cross his desk in a very long time. He shook his head in awe, his coffee forgotten, as he focused on one particular picture that caught his eye.

It was a close-up of a small patch of grass rendered in vivid greens oils. Every blade was drawn to intricate perfection. Tiny ants were crawling everywhere and it looked so realistic he thought they might actually move if he stared at them long enough. There were droplets on the grass of what he first thought to be dew or rain, until he looked closer. Chill bumps rose on his skin when he realized they weren’t round, but shaped like teardrops. But what really puzzled him about the whole scene was the fist in upper right hand corner attached to an arm that disappeared off the side of the page. The fingers were clenched so tight he could almost feel his own fingernails digging bloody trenches into his palm. There were blades of grass crushed and sticking out between the crevices of its fingers, like the hand had been clawing at the ground. It was the most disturbing picture he'd ever seen and he couldn’t figure out why. He shivered, put it aside and continued on.

The last picture in the folder stopped him cold. He took a closer look, studied it for nearly five minutes, then cursed softly at what he saw.  “Daniel Hart, have you been a bad boy?”

He smiled to an empty room. Maybe _this_ was something he could use.

\---------------------------

Daniel had spent the rest of the night before preparing himself for the worst. He’d managed to land a coveted job any artist would kill to have and in less than four months he’d lost it. His post-graduate career wasn’t off to a very good start. But he’d also decided last night that if he was going to be fired he wasn’t going to go quietly. Michael was going to hear, in vulgar detail, exactly what he thought of him and his bigoted company.

Daniel swallowed down the nervous lump in his throat as he crossed the gray marble floor to the receptionist’s desk. Her name plate identified her as Trudy Barnes, Executive Secretary. She was an attractive, well-dressed brunette, who looked a little too delicate for her job description. He wondered how much she got paid to put up with Michael’s shit. Whatever her salary was, it wasn’t enough.

“I have an appointment with Mr. Golland.”

Trudy looked up and smiled. He could have sworn he saw a bit of sympathy in her warm, brown eyes. “You’re Daniel Hart?”

Daniel nodded. “That’s me. So, is he in a good mood?”

She rolled her eyes, chuckled, and lowered her voice. “Oh yeah, he’s been humming show tunes all morning.”

He laughed softly and revised his opinion of Trudy. If she could work for that prick and keep her sense of humor then she was tougher than she looked.  “Thanks. I needed that laugh.”

She smiled and glanced back over her shoulder. “He’s waiting for you. Good luck.”

Daniel murmured another soft ‘thanks’ and walked the short distance to Michael’s office. Two brass doorknobs and a pair of ornate wooden doors were all that lay between him and getting fired. He took a deep breath, let it out, and then opened them.

The room he stepped into was nothing like what he’d expected. He’d envisioned a gargantuan cherry desk with intricate scrollwork, fine art hanging on dark-paneled walls, heavy damask drapes adorning the windows, and plush carpeting so deep it would wipe your ass as you walked through it. Instead, he saw classic minimalism: sleek, simple and functional furnishings in a light and airy room, one wall of nothing but windows and very subtle recessed lighting. He should have guessed. Everything about Michael Golland seemed to be minimalist except for his rudeness.

“Come in and have a seat.”

He turned his attention away from the décor to see Michael sitting behind his desk and eying him from across the room. He strode a good ten feet past four square upholstered chairs nestled around a small coffee table, across ten more feet of pale gray, low-pile carpeting to a pair of black chairs facing Michael’s desk. He stopped just short of them and put his hands behind his back.

Michael looked up at him, his eyes narrowing slightly.  “Have a seat,” he repeated.

“No thank you. I’ll stand.”

From the look on Michael’s face, it was apparent not many people dared defy him. To balance the power in the room, he slowly rose from his chair and placed his palms flat on his desk, drilling that cold hard stare into Daniel’s eyes.  “Sit.” He very clearly, and angrily, enunciated the ‘t’.

Daniel met his stare and raised his chin. “Why sit down and get comfortable when I’m just going to have to get back up again after you fire me?”

His glare deepened. “It takes two seconds to tell someone they’re out of a job. If I’d called you in here to fire you, I would have already done it,” he snapped. “Now sit down or get out. You’re wasting my time.”

If Michael wasn’t so goddamned beautiful, and if he didn’t need this job to pay the bills, he would have told the dickhead to shove his job up his tight, white ass. Instead, he swallowed his pride and sat down, while trying to ignore the gleam of victory in Michael’s eyes.

They sat and stared at each other. The silence dragged on until it became uncomfortable—at least for him—but he was damned if he was going to look away first. So, he did a little sightseeing while he waited for Michael to cave. He traveled leisurely along Michael’s clean shaven jaw, wishing he could trail a finger, or maybe even a tongue, along its contours. He strolled slowly across his full lower lip and imagined sucking it into his mouth. A jump to his forehead revealed that Michael’s cowlick was being unruly today. It stuck up in the most endearing way and Daniel longed to smooth it down. Then he slowly sojourned back to his cheek, his neck, then down to his shoulders. Michael was sharply dressed in a dark gray suit, white shirt, and a crisp, deep blue necktie. The man was so fucking hot he sizzled. Daniel idly wondered what he wore in the evenings or on the weekends. He couldn’t imagine him in baggy sweats and a ratty Eminem t-shirt. He probably wore one of those ridiculous smoking jackets rich people seemed to favor, with fine leather house shoes.

“Did I pass inspection?” he asked coldly.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to stare.” But he made sure his expression spoke the truth: _Oh yes I most certainly did mean to stare, and what are you going to do about it?_ Two could play this smarmy, arrogant game, especially since one had overplayed his hand too soon. Michael had made a huge mistake in revealing he wasn’t going to fire him, and he was going to take complete advantage of that fuck up.

Michael ignored his silent challenge and settled back in his chair, like he was getting all cozy and comfortable for the entertainment portion of the show. Daniel wasn’t fooled. He’d drawn the human form long enough to develop a deep understanding of body language. He knew how muscles looked under tension. Michael was putting up a good front, but he was far from relaxed, which made Daniel smile inside.

“Tell me about yourself,” Michael said.

He glanced at the two folders neatly stacked in one corner of Michael’s desk. The top one had his name on it—his personnel file.  “That’s all in my resume.”

“I didn’t read it. It’s been my experience that resumes are 98% BS and the rest lies. I’d rather hear it from you. Start at the beginning.”

Start at the beginning?? His filter instantly disengaged. “My mother bragged that I was the cutest little sperm she’d ever seen, and I swam like a bat out of hell to get to that egg.”

The only reaction was a slight narrowing of those icy blue eyes. Michael really needed to pull the stick out of his ass and buy a sense of humor. Daniel fought, and succeeded, at keeping his expression completely neutral, even though he was dying to laugh.

Michael’s lips thinned just a fraction. “Start with the _place_ —that would be a city and a state—where you were born and proceed from there.”

He suppressed a frustrated sigh. “I was born in Santa Paula… _California_. Lived there until I was fourteen. Then we moved here to Los Angeles. After high school, I enrolled in Loyola Marymount and graduated with a Bachelor’s degree in Studio Art and a Master’s degree in Art Therapy.”

He might have been mistaken, but he thought he saw a spark of interest in Michael’s eyes for the first time since this farce of an interview had started. “What exactly is art therapy?”

“It’s the therapeutic use of art to help people deal with physical or emotional trauma. You can use it in everything from helping a stroke victim regain small muscle control, to marriage and family counseling, to helping a soldier deal with PTSD.”

Daniel expected he'd ask for more details, but Michael barely hesitated before launching his next question.  “When did you discover your artistic talent?”

No one had ever asked him that before and Daniel was annoyed at being caught off guard. When he’d discovered his talent was irrelevant, as far as he was concerned, and not something he wanted to discuss in detail. “When I was twelve.”

“And…?” Michael asked, obviously expecting more, but he was not going to get it.

“And nothing,” he answered, shrugging. “I was twelve when I discovered it.” To stave off any further questions, Daniel changed the subject. “So, what was your favorite piece in my portfolio? Or did you even bother to look at it?”

Michael took the change of subject fairly gracefully, for a control freak. He slid the portfolio in front of him and opened it.  "Actually, I spent quite a bit of time looking at it," he said smoothly as he flipped through the samples. He stopped and met Daniel's gaze. "Words lie, but art always speaks the truth."

His jaw figuratively dropped. Michael probably didn't realize the implication of what he'd just said, but it was a defining moment for Daniel. Michael understood. He actually got it. He knew what Daniel had known since he was twelve years old: art was how the soul communicated with the world; it was the ultimate expression of truth. He couldn't believe it. Beneath the cold, arrogant exterior that was Michael Golland, there was a man with depth and beauty, a man worth getting to know. Who would have thought?

Michael shuffled through a couple of samples, then chose one. He turned it around and stood it up on his desk for Daniel to see. "This one is interesting."

Of course he would choose _Patch of Grass._  He barely flinched when Michael turned it around. It was his prized work. It had taken months of gut-wrenching agony to get that painting out of his soul and onto the canvas, and years to be able to look at it without cringing. "I've won a lot of awards with that one, and a couple of competitions," Daniel said smoothly.

"I saw that. Now tell me about it."

He'd been asked to explain that painting more times than he could count, but no one had ever gotten the truth of that scene from his mouth, and no one ever would.  "It was an undergraduate assignment. We were challenged to paint a picture that would evoke strong emotion in whoever viewed it."

Michael nodded. "You succeeded. It's very disturbing. What exactly is happening in it?"

He bristled at Michael's persistence. Art was subjective and not something that could be explained upon demand. Art critics made him want to puke with their long-winded analyses of another person's soul, thinking, in their art-theory-educated-arrogance, that they knew exactly what the artist was "saying".  

"What do _you_ think is happening?" Daniel asked curiously.

Michael turned the picture back around and stared at it for several moments. He spoke in an uncharacteristically soft voice and without meeting Daniel's eyes. "Suffering. Pain. He's being torn apart and trying desperately to stop it, but he's not strong enough. He's losing himself and he knows it."

There was a chilling silence in the room. The hairs rose on his neck at the accuracy of Michael's critique. Michael looked up and met his gaze, and for a split second Daniel saw sadness in those translucent blue eyes. Just as quickly, it disappeared. 

"Was I close?"

The mocking arrogance was back, but Daniel ignored it. "It's been my experience that a person's interpretation of that painting reveals more about _them_ than the picture itself."

When Michael's eyes hardened, his jaw bones clenched, he knew he'd hit a nerve. There was so much more to this handsome, haughty man than what he was allowing the public to see, and Daniel found that incredibly attractive and intriguing. Michael returned his attention to the portfolio, hurriedly flipped through the remaining samples until he came to the last one. He stood it up on the desk in front of Daniel. It was the mural he'd painted on the outside of a nightclub.

"So, you're a street artist," he said.

Daniel smiled. "Street art is technically vandalism of public property, and that's illegal. That mural was commissioned. The owner of the building met with me several times and we worked out the design together. He paid me by check and the IRS was happy. It was all legitimate. I can give you his name if you'd like."

Michael smiled in return, but there was no warmth in it. "That won't be necessary." He laid the sample back down on his desk and leaned back in his chair, his hands steepled together at the fingertips. "Do you know a street artist by the name of Joystyk?"

His heart rate spiked at hearing that name from Michael's lips. A frantic battle waged inside of his body as he struggled to hide his alarm from Michael's icy, penetrating stare. He couldn't help but think they'd finally reached the real reason for this strange interview.  Daniel answered calmly, even though his heart felt like it was about to explode out of his chest. "I've heard of him. Why do you ask?"

Michael leaned forward and rested his forearms on his desk, his long fingers clasped together, his eyes boring two holes in Daniel's face. "Eight months ago, someone vandalized one of our buildings downtown—a very vulgar and offensive image that cost GEM several thousand dollars to remove. I was given the job of finding the criminal responsible."

"What was the image?" he asked, as if he didn't already know.

"Two naked men tonguing each other, their dicks twisted together like two grapevines."

Hearing Michael utter the word 'dick' was enough to send shock waves straight to his cock, and almost made him forget about the deep shit he was nearly in. "I can see where that might be offensive," Daniel observed, careful to keep the smirk off his face, and his eyes off Michael's luscious bottom lip.

"I spent a month studying the street art all over this city. I narrowed the suspect list down to Joystyk. Do you know who he is?"

"No, I don't." He was damned if he was going to squirm under Michael's scrutiny, but he couldn't stop his balls from shriveling into marbles. Once again, he felt he was seconds away from being fired.

"You're a liar," Michael said softly.

Daniel did the smart thing for once and said nothing. They'd reached an impasse and Michael knew it. He suspected something but he obviously had no proof or heads would have already rolled. The bastard could stare at him all day long, but he'd said all he was going to say, even if he lost his job over it.

Michael was pissed, but he controlled it well. With his lips pressed together in a tight, angry line, he gathered up Daniel's samples and stuffed them back into the portfolio and slid it aside. Daniel watched in fascination as he pulled himself together. In a few short moments, all traces of his previous anger were gone, submerged beneath the beautifully angular bone structure of his face.

"You're very talented, Daniel."

He wasn't sure which shocked him more: hearing his name cross Michael's lips for the first time, or hearing him say something nice for once. "Did you just compliment me??" Daniel asked, not bothering to hide his surprise.

Michael gave him a sardonic look. "Every warm body in this building is an asset and has only one purpose: to contribute to the success and profitability of this company. You're a very talented asset to GEM.. _.for now._ But the second you move into the liability column, for any reason at all, you're gone."

He should have known the fucker wasn't being nice. He nodded his understanding and smiled crookedly. "You're welcome."

Michael immediately broke eye contact. "I think we're finished here."

 

* * *

 

As soon as the door shut behind Daniel, Michael dropped his face into his hands and ground the heels of his palms into his eye sockets, trying to eradicate the cocky bastard's image from his mind, but knowing it was a waste of energy. He'd never met anyone as maddening as Daniel Hart before. No one had ever gotten under his skin so badly, made him lose his composure so easily, or tricked him into saying things he would never say under normal circumstances. He'd known the very second the words had left his mouth, that he'd said entirely too much about the painting, that he'd inadvertently revealed more about himself than he should have. The wily son-of-a-bitch had picked up on it, too.

Plus, he was talented, no way around that. He hadn't exaggerated when he'd said Daniel was a valuable asset to the company, but there was a limit to how much of Daniel Hart's shit he was willing to put up with for the sake of a dollar. There had been no trying to disguise his homosexuality this time. The faggot had inspected him like he was an insect beneath a microscope, like he was a piece of meat to be devoured at his leisure. It had been an infuriating moment, and had taken every bit of composure he'd had not to plow a fist into his smug face.  The man badly needed a lesson in humility, to experience what it felt like to be underneath the boot of a powerful person. People like him needed to be brought to their knees so they'd learn their place. Michael wished he could be the one to teach him that lesson, but he'd have to settle for a more subtle means of control: the mural.

Daniel was involved in that offensive act of vandalism on their building, of that he had absolutely no doubt. Either he _was_ Joystyk and had done the mural himself, or he'd helped someone _else_  do it. There were too many subtle similarities in both their styles for it to be a coincidence.  He knew Daniel had lied, and Daniel knew he knew.

Michael smiled as that familiar feeling of power spread through his body, invigorating him and hardening his cock. Controlling Daniel Hart wasn't going to be easy, but it was going to be thoroughly enjoyable. He felt sure Daniel was quaking in his tacky Converse at that very moment. Just the thought of him worrying over losing his job or perhaps landing in jail for his juvenile vandalism, had his cock testing the strength of his linen slacks. It was definitely going to take one of his most obedient women to satisfy him tonight.

Michael was just about to toss Daniel's personnel file, and his portfolio, into the outgoing basket and get on with his day, when something stopped him, a nagging feeling he was missing something important. He'd slipped up one too many times with Daniel Hart already. It would be stupid of him to make that mistake again. The files needed a second look, and maybe even a third. He needed something more to hang over Daniel's head. To have complete control over a marionette you had to know exactly where to attach the strings.

He slid the folders back in front of him, and opened the portfolio first. He flipped past the grass painting without stopping. He never wanted to look at that disturbing picture again. It reminded him too much of his mistake, and also of his own weakness, which infuriated him. Daniel Hart was never going to have control over him, not even through a canvas.

He hesitated over one sample that he'd purposely avoided before: the self-portrait in watercolor. He forced himself to study the face staring back at him. Daniel's eyes drew his attention first, as they had in their previous two conversations. They were brown, but not the ordinary muddy brown of a million other people's. His were a lighter shade, the color of rich coffee with just the right amount of cream. There was warmth in those eyes, but also that gleam of cockiness that made him so annoying.

Daniel had used a combination of pen and ink and paint to convey the dusting of stubble across his lip, chin and jawline. He'd sported a five o'clock shadow at the Christmas party and then again this morning. Michael doubted the man ever shaved. The homeless bum look seemed to be his Bohemian idea of stylish. His hair was short, thick, and a much darker brown than Michael's, his beard nearly identical in color.

Every imperfection of the man's face was rendered flawlessly in the portrait, even the scars: one just to the left of Daniel's nose and the other above his right eyebrow. Michael had noticed them before and had idly wondered how they'd gotten there. Scars always had stories to tell, some interesting and some not. He had a feeling Daniel's would be worth hearing.

Daniel possessed all the qualities women seemed to like in a man: a strong square jaw, full lips, a straight nose and a very striking eye color, all ordinary, regular features when viewed separately, but together, they were an attractive combination. He had to grudgingly admit that Daniel Hart was a handsome man. A bit rustic and rough around the edges, but women seemed to gravitate to that as much as they did to money and refinement. Too bad he was a queer. Michael had a stable of eager whores he could have steered his way.

He slammed the portfolio shut and cursed softly at the ridiculous amount of time he'd wasted gazing at the man's face. He had more important things to do. He grabbed Daniel's personnel file, determined to find something he could use against him. He looked over the resume again, finding absolutely nothing that Daniel hadn't already mentioned in their conversation. He read his personal history very slowly and carefully, scanned his references, and again he found nothing valuable.

Michael fell back in his chair and growled in frustration. There had to be something else, some scandalous skeleton in Daniel's closet he could exploit. Sucking another man's dick was reason enough for dismissal in  _his_ mind, but unfortunately, the law didn't see it that way. He needed something else or his ass was going to be raked over the coals and very soon.

_What about his family members?_

Energized, he touched the keyboard of his laptop to wake it up. He quickly scanned Daniel's personal history again, searching for his father's name: David Allen Hart. There was nothing familiar about it. He'd never heard of him but he was sure the Internet had. A few quick searches of some very expensive databases and he'd find out everything there was to know about Daniel's father and the rest of his family. If there was even a hint of a scandal, he'd find it, and he'd use it without an ounce of conscience.

It took him less than thirty seconds to find Daniel's father. He scrolled past the meaningless information—date and place of birth, address, marital status, number of children, his income bracket—and skipped right to the important part: his place of employment. What a man did for a living said more about him than any over-embellished bio ever would. Michael froze as he stared at the words on the screen.

"FUCK!!" he screamed, unleashing his fury upon his surroundings. Everything on the surface of his desk and within reach of his hands was hurled violently to the floor. The papers from Daniel's personnel file fluttered quietly to the carpet; his samples from his portfolio were scattered everywhere. The self portrait had so fucking conveniently landed in the chair in front of his desk. That cocky face with the gleaming brown eyes stared defiantly back at Michael, mocking him, laughing at his stupidity.

He fumed and fought to calm down. Thinking and planning required an inner serenity, a coldness of thought, not the angry tantrums of a spoiled toddler. He had to gain control of his temper or this was going to turn out very badly for both him and this company. Daniel Hart was one smart son-of-a-bitch, as Michael now realized. He'd pulled a fast one on GEM and no one had caught it. Perhaps if he'd actually conducted Daniel's initial interview instead of sitting in a fucking jail cell, this wouldn't have happened. But it was too late for recriminations.

Daniel was the one who held the puppet strings now, and it was Michael Golland and GEM who were his marionettes.

 

**TRUDY BARNES ~ EXECUTIVE SECRETARY**

 


	4. A Dangerous Eye for Detail

Cameron was bringing over pizza soon, and if they planned on eating it Daniel was going to have to stop his ridiculous obsessing over Michael Golland and get the damned kitchen table cleared off. As he worked at moving his art paraphernalia from one inappropriate place (the table) to yet another inappropriate place (the counter), his mind was filled with images of that beautifully arrogant man. Snippets of their conversation filtered through his thoughts as he went over and over everything that had been said that morning.

The more he thought about it, the more sure he was that he’d been completely wrong about Michael. That remark about words lying and art always speaking the truth hadn’t revealed anything profound about his personality. It was _he_ who had completely romanticized that moment, and had looked at it through his own brand of rose-colored glasses. Only later, after he'd had some quiet time to reflect, had he realized that Michael had not revealed any hidden love or understanding of art with that remark, but instead, it had been his a-hole way of letting Daniel know he’d discovered some half-assed proof of his involvement in the defacement of their building via his own artwork.

He should have known Michael didn’t have the soul of an artist, or even a superficial appreciation of the craft. A person who loved art surrounded themselves with it, and there hadn’t been a single painting on the walls of his office. Not one. Not even a boring landscape or a generic still life. Hell, there hadn’t even been any small picture frames on his desk. Nothing. No, the man didn’t love art, he loved _money_. He appreciated assets and despised liabilities. He was probably now ecstatic over the fact that he could use Daniel’s own art as a weapon against him and send him into that liability column (and the unemployment line) at record speed.

Upon more reflection, Daniel pegged his softly-spoken interpretation of _Patch of Grass_ as nothing more than a face-saving performance for Daniel’s benefit. He’d acted as if he’d understood the emotional and physical pain behind the art, when in actuality he’d probably had no clue. Emotional trauma for a man like Michael Golland was getting a Porsche for Christmas instead of the Jaguar he’d asked for. A man in his position of wealth and prominence would never be able to relate to the horror Daniel had experienced that day, no matter how much he tried to pretend he understood.

To make matters even worse, Michael Golland was a control freak of the highest order. He wasn’t naïve enough to think that his artistic talent would be enough to save his job if Michael found solid proof to back up his suspicions. The man was rich, powerful, good looking and got off on controlling everything around him—a nightmarish combination for anyone stupid enough to get involved with him. Cameron was right. He really needed to keep a professional distance between himself and Michael.

He sighed as he transferred the last pile of sketches from the table to the counter. Easier said than done. There was an attraction, no denying it. He could tell himself to stay way until he turned blue in the face, but that wouldn’t stop the gravitational pull that was drawing him closer and closer to Michael Golland.

* * *

 

“Oh sweetie, you cleaned for me??” Cameron swept into the kitchen in full flaming gay mode. He deposited the cardboard pizza box on the table and grinned. “So does this mean we’re engaged, my darling Danny?”

Daniel sneered at him. “I didn’t clean for you, you fucking queen. I cleaned for myself. You know I can’t stand clutter.”

Cameron sputtered with laughter at the ridiculous lie and plopped down in a chair, while Daniel got the plates, two beers, then settled down across from him. “But seriously,” Cameron said in between mouthfuls of pizza. “The place looks a little less pig-sty-ish than usual. There must be a special occasion on the horizon.”

It was truly a wonder he and Cameron were such close friends, considering their differences. Cam was a neat freak, a housekeeping ninja, his apartment spotless with everything in its place, while Daniel considered himself lucky if there was enough cleared space to plant his ass on the couch and nothing was blocking the television.

Daniel shrugged and frowned. “I’ve been a little too restless to draw, so I cleaned. Get the fuck over it.”

Cameron pursed his lips together and sucked in a harsh breath. “Oooh, somebody’s a little testy,” he said with a fake lisp. Then he snickered. “Must be the pleasant conversation you had with Mr. Ice Prince that has you in such a good mood. Care to tell me the details?”

Cameron had waylaid him as soon as he’d gotten out of Michael’s office, pestering him for details of their conversation. Daniel had put him off, citing the presence of too many nosy-assed people, because who knew which one of them was in Michael’s pocket. Some people would suck the devil’s dick if they were palmed enough money.

“He asked me if I knew who Joystyk was.”

Cameron stopped chewing. The laughing, happy-go-lucky guy who loved playing the effeminate queer to the hilt disappeared in an instant, replaced by a serious man who just happened to be gay, and who had an extremely low tolerance for stupid people’s bullshit—the main reason he and Cam got along so well.  He finished his bite and swallowed. Took a big swig of beer to wash it down, then sat back in his chair. “What the fuck?” he asked, frowning and his eyes narrowing with suspicion. “In what possible context would that country club peacock come across the name Joystyk?”

Daniel sighed, hoping he wouldn’t lose his best friend with his answer. “I included that mural I did in San Francisco in my portfolio. You know, that gay club with the owner who had the hots for me?” Daniel snickered, but Cam wasn’t in a humorous mood. “The guy who interviewed me didn’t catch it, so I didn’t figure anyone else would either.”

Cameron made a disgusted noise and shook his head in disbelief. “So you’re saying he took one look at your mural and he made the connection." He snapped his fingers. "Just like that.”

He explained to Cameron all about Michael being given the assignment of finding the vandals responsible for defacing their building, that he’d spent every day for a month studying the street art all over the city until he’d narrowed the suspect list down to Joystyk.  “Michael has a dangerous eye for detail,” Daniel said softly. “We’ve got to lay low for awhile.”

Cameron’s eyes hardened. “Fuck that laying low shit! You can lay low and I’m okay with that, but I’m not. I paint for Devon and no fucking pansy-assed little rich boy is going to stop me.”

Daniel had a sudden desire to put both hands around his friend’s neck and squeeze really hard, but he managed to keep his temper under control. Cam could be stubborn, especially when it came to Devon, but the man wasn’t stupid, nor was he suicidal.

“Joystyk is a two-man team, Cam. Remember? You and me. You go off on your own and start slapping shit all over GEM buildings and it won’t take a man as observant as Michael a half hour to track you down and put your ass in jail. Your style is too distinctive all on its own. You need my paint to muck it all up, confuse everybody, and keep us both safe. We’re anonymous as Joystyk, but if we paint separately, we’re sitting ducks. We’ve got to lay low for the time being.”

Cameron’s lips were an angry slash across his face, but his eyes were softening. He knew he couldn’t afford to go off on his own. Activist street art was a risky, subversive little hobby. There were only two people in Los Angeles who knew the identity of Joystyck and both of them were sitting in Daniel’s kitchen. Three would definitely be a crowd. Michael was too smart to fuck around with. Cam just needed someone to remind him of that stark reality.

“I fucking hate being controlled like this,” Cam muttered between clenched teeth.

“I know, but we’ve both got to keep out of trouble or risk losing our jobs. I don’t know about you, but I’ve grown rather fond of having a place to live and food to eat.”

Cameron made another disgusted sound and concentrated on his pizza. They ate in silence until the food was gone. He asked for another beer and Daniel obliged, taking another one for himself, as well.

“I know you,” Cameron said, after sipping his brew in silence for awhile. “You’re ignoring everything I’ve told you about that guy, aren’t you? I can see it, man, see it in your eyes. He’s all the way across the fucking city in that pretentious mansion of his, but he might as well be sitting right here in this room. You’re hopeless, Daniel.”

Daniel sighed. Cam knew him better than anyone. “After Devon, you of all people should know you can’t control who you’re attracted to.”

Cam surprised him by laughing instead of getting angry. “Devon was G. A. Y. Hello?? Michael is a hetro, and an arrogant, rude bastard to boot. Big difference there, sweetie.”

Daniel idly twirled his beer bottle as he tried to figure out just what it was that attracted him. It wasn’t just physical lust, although he couldn’t deny how much he wanted to slowly strip off that suit and tie, run his hands and tongue all over the man’s body, slide his fingers between his legs, and do all the other stuff that would come after that. No, it was something else. There was something hiding underneath the ugly persona Michael presented to the world, and Daniel was just romantic enough to believe it was something beautiful. He just knew that when he uncovered the real man who was Michael Golland, there would be a person worth loving under there. But the straight and narrow thing, that was a definite hindrance.

Cam leaned forward, his forearms resting on the table and cradling his nearly empty beer between his hands. “You’re nothing but a heaping tablespoon of white sugar, a sweet man with an even sweeter heart. Even if you just want to be friends with him, that guy is going to rip your heart out and stomp on it with his fancy designer shoes. He’s going to hurt you.”

Daniel got up and started clearing the dishes from the table, ignoring Cameron’s remarks and focusing on the task at hand. Cam was probably right, but Daniel didn’t think he could just back away from Michael Golland at this point. No matter how much it was going to hurt, Daniel wanted to know more about him, wanted to get beneath that cold exterior and see if there was anything warm waiting there.

“I plan on being careful,” Daniel finally said after the table was cleared and there was nothing left for a distraction.

Cam nodded. “Careful is good, I guess, but what’s even better is having your father in our corner. Did he mention him?”

“Not one word.” Daniel smirked. “I just knew someone would come across that juicy little tidbit when they did a background on me, then toss my application in the trash. But no one has said a word about him, not even Michael.”

Cameron grinned all over himself. “I still can’t believe you made it in. Someone sure dropped the ball.”

“Yeah, my dad’s still scratching his head over that one, but he’s not complaining.”

Cameron rose from the table and stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets. “Cavorting with the enemy is not the brightest idea, Danny Boy.”

“Maybe so.” Daniel shrugged. “But what about keeping your friends close and your enemies closer? Something tells me Michael will find me out pretty soon, if he hasn’t already, and there’s not a damned thing he can do about it now. Oh, wouldn’t I love to be a fly on the wall when he does. He’s going to be so pissed.”

GEM was a successful marketing firm with a dirty underbelly of discrimination. It was time for someone to stop it. So, as long as Daniel was employed by GEM, he had to keep his nose clean and his eyes open. No more illegal paint. He had to be the perfect employee from now on and do everything by the book.

When Cam left, he shut the door behind him and leaned against it, thinking. Trying to build a friendship with a man who seemed to have no interest in being part of the human race was going to be a challenge, for sure, but Daniel was nothing if not persistent. He already had a plan in place on how to proceed, and a backup plan, and a backup for the backup plan.

Michael Golland was going to have his first true friend, whether he wanted one or not.  Starting Monday...

 

**MICHAEL'S OFFICE**

 

**CAMERON SCOTT**

 


	5. An Education

Michael stared out the windows of his office, patiently watching the black fade from the horizon as the sun slowly made its entrance into the sky. Early morning was his favorite time of the day—always had been. As a child, he’d stolen out of bed before everyone else and left the house, wandering in the woods, watching the sun come up, or just thinking. He’d never grown out of it. Even as a teenager, he could never sleep in. He loved the stillness, the darkness just before dawn, that feeling of being the only person left in the world. There was a unique serenity to be found in the silence of a sunrise.

Monday morning found him much calmer. The anger over discovering Daniel’s deception had ruined the rest of his weekend. Instead of leaving it at the door, he’d carried his rage home with him after work, refusing to let it go. No book had been able to divert his attention, not even for a few minutes. His evening workout had done nothing to stop the furious thoughts racing through his mind: the recriminations, the best course of action for the company, the reprimand he would soon get from his father for not doing his job, how to handle Daniel from this point forward. He’d finally given up and sought out Claire. Spending time with her had always helped him put the turmoil in his life into perspective. She was his best friend and confidant, his lifeline. The nearly two hours he’d spent with her over the weekend had driven away all of his anger and given him the focus he’d needed to sort out the mess with Daniel. And what a mess it was.

Michael shook his head, refusing to go there. He was not going to squander the precious minutes left of this magnificent sunrise thinking of Daniel Hart and his lies. He’d already made his final decision last night on how to deal with him; there was no use going over it all again.  He took a deep cleansing breath, slid his hands into his pockets and smiled in appreciation when the sun finally broke free of the horizon. It had a long journey ahead of it, but with nothing to block its progress, the trip would be easy. He only wished his life was that simple.

He heard the door to his office quietly open and shut. He knew it was his father without even looking. He chose to ignore him and continued to stare out the windows, even though the sunrise was officially over. His father despised being ignored which was why he did it at every opportunity.

“What’s so interesting that you can’t even acknowledge your own father?”

Michael cringed inside at just the sound of his father’s refined, aristocratic voice. He drew upon the peaceful reserves from his time with Claire and turned to face the despicable man who had helped bring him into this world. To John Q. Public, Paul Golland, Sr. had been a loving husband to his deceased wife, a conscientious father to his three successful children, a respected businessman, a leader in the church, and a caring philanthropist who untiringly helped the poor of Los Angeles. But his family knew the truth. The expensive tailored suits, the distinguished graying hair, the fake manners and amicable smile were all nothing but smoke and mirrors.

“I’m sorry father. I didn’t hear your knock.” A soft and respectful delivery, but he knew his father would get his sarcastic point.

“I don’t have to knock. I own this place, in case you’ve forgotten that.” He laughed quietly. “Besides, I’ve discovered some very interesting things about people by walking into a room unannounced, as you well know.”

And just like Michael never passed up an opportunity to ignore his father, his father never passed up an opportunity to wake those sleeping dogs, especially when it came to his least favored and youngest son. But on this morning, Michael was determined to hold his temper and let the dig go unacknowledged.

When his father realized his comment hadn’t had the effect he’d been hoping for, he plowed forward with the real reason for the early morning visit. “It always amazes me how wonderfully proficient you are at fucking up.”

Michael bit down on the retort that almost shot out of his mouth. Blatant disrespect would get him nowhere fast. “Better to be proficient at something than suck at everything.”  He smirked at his father, letting him think he was not bothered at all by the insult, when in fact, it hurt like hell. He wondered why the constant reminders of his imperfections continued to get underneath his skin. One would think he would have developed some sort of immunity to it by now, having listened to it his entire fucking life.

Michael crossed the room, putting some much-needed distance between them, and casually sank into his office chair. There was no use trying to balance the power when Paul Golland was in a room, so a man might as well sit and pretend to be comfortable while he got a size 10-1/2 Gucci shoved up his ass.

“I give you one simple job to do and you can’t even do that right,” his father continued, following him to his desk and towering above him.

“And what job is that?” he asked, staring up at his father and feigning innocence.

“Getting rid of Cameron Scott,” he answered. “You were supposed to fire the fag months ago, but I see he’s still here. He was an embarrassment at the Christmas party, prancing around the place with his earring and limp wrist.”

Michael shrugged. “I’ve watched the man for months, but he’s the perfect employee. I can’t find a reason to fire him that would withstand the scrutiny of a good attorney.”

His father’s lips thinned, his icy blue stare boring twin holes in Michael’s eyes. “You _will_ find one or I'll find someone else to do your job. And while you’re at it, get rid of Daniel Hart, too. I’ve been told by a reliable source that Scott and Hart are big buddies, and that Hart is as queer as a three dollar bill. I want them both off my payroll. I bought this piece of shit pile of steel and built it into a Fortune 500 company. I won’t have our reputation sullied by those perverts and their disgusting lifestyle. They have the morals of horny alley cats and they spread disease like rats. I want them out.”

If Michael could have laughed without getting a fist rammed down his throat, he would have fallen in the floor in hysterics. A couple of promiscuous homos couldn’t even begin to touch the sexual decadence of the man standing before him. His upstanding, God-fearing father had fucked every woman in his income bracket, no matter her age or marital status, and some while Michael’s mother had still been alive. Apparently God gave Get-Out-of-Hell-Free cards as long as you stuck it in a pussy. His hypocrisy knew no bounds.

Michael leaned back in his chair and resisted the urge to smile. He hated flaming fags as much as his father, but he had his priorities, and right now he was about to metaphorically kick his dear old dad in the nuts. Sometimes, at moments like this, he actually enjoyed being alive.

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to get rid of Cameron _or_ Daniel anytime soon.” He waited a respectable few seconds, pleased to see his father’s body tense at what he probably perceived as outright defiance. Before he could open his mouth, he calmly delivered the coup de tat. “Daniel’s father is a lawyer. He works for the state's Attorneys General Office here in Los Angeles...” Michael hesitated for effect. “…in the Sexual Orientation Discrimination Division.”

Michael had thrown a violent temper tantrum at discovering Daniel’s deceit, but his father was a completely different animal. When angered, there was a disturbing stillness about him that Michael had learned to fear—the calm before the storm. He could tell his father was livid at the news, but he controlled his rage much better than his son had. He held his breath as he cautiously watched him process the fact that GEM was most likely fucked, that his years of skirting of the law had been brought to a screeching halt by the very thing he hated the most.

“He’s a plant."

Michael nodded. “No doubt. And I’m sure his father has an entire drawer in his filing cabinet devoted solely to complaints against GEM.”

The bones in his father's angular jaw visibly clenched. He hated being one-upped by anyone, and especially someone like Daniel. He turned and went over to the windows. Several silent minutes passed as his father stared at the vista beyond the glass and Michael stared at his stiff back. Finally he spoke, not bothering to turn around. “How could an employee of mine be so thoroughly incompetent? How stupid do you have to be, Michael, to hire someone without checking their background first?”

The unwarranted criticism of his competency infuriated him. He loosened the tenuous grip on his temper, just a little, and proceeded to throw the man responsible under the bus. “Howard hired him, not me. I wasn’t even here to do the background check. If you recall, I was sitting in a fucking jail cell because of your fucking whore! I just found out about this yesterday!”

He turned around and studied Michael for a few moments before laughing softly. “You’re blaming me because you can’t control your temper??” Before Michael could argue the point, he waved his hand in dismissal. “Water under the bridge. What we need to focus on now is finding something we can use to get rid of Hart.”

Michael already had something he could use, if he could gather sufficient proof. Vandalizing the property of the company who provided your paycheck would definitely be grounds for dismissal, but he wasn’t willing to share his suspicions with his father just yet.  “I plan on keeping a very close eye on him,” Michael said. “You know the saying: ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.’”

His father studied him with suspicious eyes for several moments before changing the subject. “Remember, we have that immigrant charity thing tomorrow night. It’s formal and there’ll be press there, so bring someone with some class. You _do_ have a date, I’m assuming.”

Michael gritted his teeth at the prospect of spending an evening preening before cameras, pretending he gave a shit about the plight of the immigrant, when he really couldn’t care less about them. Nor was he in the mood to deal with the only one of his D&G whores who was available that night. She was a snotty, pretentious bitch of the highest order who couldn’t quite grasp the meaning of obedience.

“Camilla,” he answered.

His father nodded his approval and grinned. “Good choice. She’ll look nice on your arm.” He winked. “She's one of my favorites. So needless to say, I’d like her to make it though the evening without injury. Can you manage that?”

His snide tone hit a nerve. The truth was, he couldn’t guarantee anything when it came to Camilla. Just being in the same room with her pushed his patience to the limit. Slapping the fuck out of her in private was a distinct possibility, especially if she ruined his play with her attitude. “I’ll try,” Michael answered back, matching his father’s tone.

His father nodded an acknowledgment, then smirked. “Now we deal with Howard. That man is going to get an education.”

 _Get an education._ He cringed and fought the nausea that always rose up in his gut whenever he heard his father say those words. He almost felt sorry for Howard.

After his father left, Michael gravitated to the windows again, wishing he could transport himself out of this room, this city, this miserable life he was living. He stared through the tempered glass, but his eyes weren’t seeing the cityscape beyond it, nor did they notice the brightness of the sun. They were peering into the past, into a pool house, and behind a tightly closed door…

 

_“You have a Jacuzzi?? Cool!” Dari flashed a bright smile filled with perfect white teeth, his dark eyes glistening with excitement._

_Dario, or Dari as he preferred to be called, had been Michael’s friend for only two short days, but they’d been the best days of his life so far. He was an illegal Mexican immigrant, and his parents had been picked up by the INS. Michael’s mother had a soft spot for the poor of LA and had brought Dari home to stay with them temporarily while things got sorted out. Michael had been less than enthusiastic at first. He was a Golland, as his father almost daily reminded him, and Gollands did not run in the same social circles as wetbacks. But within the first few minutes of their meeting, Michael had fallen in love with the dark-skinned boy. He was everything Michael wasn’t: outgoing and adventurous, bursting with joy and energy, loving life despite the hopelessness of his personal circumstances._

_“Can we get in it?” Dari asked, barely containing his excitement._

_Michael nodded and shut the door behind them. The room was dim and pleasantly warm. Clouds had temporarily hidden the sun, so they were both shivering from being in the pool. Michael checked the temperature and started the jets._

_Dari glanced over his shoulder and grinned with mischief. Michael adored him and seemed to be unable to stop looking at him. He was so beautiful, so different from all the other boys he knew._

_Dari suddenly shucked off his swimming trunks and kicked them to the corner. Michael’s mouth dropped open of its own accord. It wasn't like he’d never saw a naked boy before. He had, plenty of times—at the country club pool house and the gym locker room at school—but this was different somehow._

_“It’ll be funner butt naked,” Dari said, laughing softly. “Come on, Michael. Take yours off.”_

_Suddenly, Michael felt very awkward. He was skinny and gangly, his arms and legs resembling the klutzy appendages of a newborn giraffe. Dari was compact and strong, his arms and legs already forming muscles Michael doubted he’d ever possess._

_One more request from Dari was all it took. Michael was not going to appear weak or cowardly in front of his friend. He quickly shoved his trunks down to his ankles, cringing at the thought of what Dari would think of his body, but his friend wasn’t looking. He was already sliding into the water and groaning at the warmth. Michael did the same, taking a spot for himself on the submerged ledge directly opposite from Dari._

_“This is nice.” Dari grinned and ducked completely under the water. Michael watched his distorted form shift among the bubbles, his arms waving gracefully like coral in the sea, his dark hair floating like seaweed caught in a current. He could hold his breath for an incredibly long time. Michael was envious._

_Suddenly, he broke the surface, shaking his head like a wet dog, whipping warm water into Michael’s face. He laughed and Michael joined him while wiping the water from his eyes. When they stopped laughing, he realized that Dari was very close, so close his knees were brushing lightly against Michael’s own. Dari was staring at him strangely, his characteristic smile gone from his face. Something stirred in Michael, a feeling he’d never had before. Dari was making him very nervous, but also a little excited. He held his friend’s eyes, determined not to look away. When he saw Dari begin to move closer, Michael held his breath, his skin racing with chill bumps._

_When their lips finally touched, Michael’s body came alive. It reminded him of an old horror movie he’d watched once, where someone had pumped electricity into a corpse. His insides convulsed and writhed with shock and pleasure at the feel of Dari’s soft mouth pressed against his. His dick jerked as it grew hard. Michael loved the taste of him and wanted more, but it was over too soon._

_Dari pulled away and watched him. He seemed to be waiting for Michael to say something, but he’d never be able to find the words to describe his feelings at that moment._ _Dari must have taken his silence as acceptance. Michael’s eyes drifted shut when he brushed his fingers up his leg. He groaned when Dari cupped his balls gently in his hand, using his thumb to tenderly stroke them. He cursed softly when Dari tenderly ran his fingers up and down his growing erection._

_“You’re so good-looking,” Dari whispered, his voice husky and low._

_“So are you,” Michael managed to croak._

_Dari smiled and chuckled beneath his breath. “Look what you do to me, mi amigo.”_

_He rose from the water until his hips broke free of the bubbles. Michael’s eyes stayed glued to his groin. He studied it, fascinated with the glistening droplets of water clinging to Dari’s scant pubic hair and dripping off the head of his swollen dick. Michael had seen plenty of boys naked, but never one so close, and never any that had affected him in this way. He was riveted by the beauty of Dari’s body: his size, the dusky tint of his skin, the vein running down his length._

_“You like my tito?” he asked, grinning as he playfully waved his dick back and forth with his hand._

_Michael doubted Dari even heard the whispered ‘yes’ that slipped from his mouth, but his expression must have said the same thing._

_Dari let go of himself, smiled down at Michael and winked. “You can touch it. I don’t mind.”_

_Michael had wrapped his hand around his own dick more times than he could count, but he’d never touched anyone else’s. Even though in his mind he knew what it would feel like, Michael was completely unprepared for the reality of Dari’s hard shaft resting against his palm. Was his that silky? Michael wound his fingers around it and tightened his grip just a little, causing Dari to throw his head back and groan. A string of Spanish words filled the room. Michael didn’t understand their meaning, but he loved the sound of Dari’s voice as he spoke them._

_Dari looked down at him, his eyes dark and strange. He threaded his fingers into Michael’s short hair, pulling hard at the strands and digging the tips into his scalp._ _“Besamelo. Kiss it,” he gasped softly. “Please.”_

_Michael felt a pull he couldn’t resist, like Dari had put an invisible yolk around his neck and was gently tugging at the reins. He gripped Dari tighter and felt the throbbing pulse beneath his fingers. Dari pushed his hips forward just enough to lightly touch the head of his dick against Michael’s lips. He gently nudged with his swollen tip; Michael's mouth opened willingly. He slid inside, slow and smooth, but not very deep, just enough so that Michael could curl his tongue around the head. The sensations taking over his body were more intense than anything Michael had ever experienced. He felt like he could come right then if he just relaxed and let it go._

_Then everything fell apart. They’d been so absorbed in each other that neither one of them realized Michael’s father had slipped into the room unannounced._

_“Get the fuck away from him.”_

_The command was spoken very softly, but only Michael knew the rage hidden beneath it. Dari stumbled backward in surprise, nearly falling in his haste to get away. Michael could only cower in the water, terrified of what was coming._

_“Get your clothes on, go to the house and stay there!” he shouted at Dari as he fumbled for his shorts in the corner._

_Wisely, Dari didn’t argue or even apologize. He silently did as he was ordered and it didn’t escape Michael’s attention that his hands shook as he slipped on his trunks. When he finally scurried from the room, Michael’s heart sank, because he knew that was the last time he’d ever see him._

_His father turned his furious gaze on him. “You disgusting piece of perverted SHIT!!”_

_Michael tried to scrabble away from him, but in the confines of the Jacuzzi, there was nowhere he could go. His father grabbed his arm and bodily dragged him from the water. Michael yelped from the pain in his shoulder, but it could never be worse than what he suspected was coming. He literally threw him to the tiled floor and kicked his feet out from under him as he fought for balance. His cheek slammed against the cold, wet tiles and the world dimmed. But the disorientation didn't last long. His father ground the sole of one shoe into his neck to hold him in place while he unfastened his belt and violently tore it from his waistband._

_“This is your idea of helping the poor? By sucking a wetback’s dick??”_

_The leather hit his skin with such force that Michael couldn’t have kept his mouth shut if he’d wanted to. He screamed with each stroke of the belt and tried to get away from its fury, but there was nowhere to escape to in the small room. His back, his butt, the backs of his thighs all burned as if his skin were on fire. Tears ran down his face and snot clogged his nose as he cried his apologies and begged his father to stop. He kept at it until Michael wondered if he would live through his punishment. Would his father even feel bad if he accidentally killed him?_

_Finally the whipping stopped. Michael had no idea why, but he was grateful. Now if only he would just leave him alone, everything would be okay. But he should have known his father wasn't finished. He grabbed his shoulder and nearly pulled it from its socket while hauling Michael to his feet. He fought to stand and keep his balance even though he was hurting all over and felt like he was going to vomit. His father grabbed him by the face, clutching his chin and cheeks in his iron grip, his fingers digging into Michael's jaw on both sides._

_"Twelve years old." He squeezed harder; tears slid down Michael's cheek. "Twelve fucking years old and you're already a fucking disgrace. We're going to fix that, Michael. No Golland male is going to shame our family like this, not as long as there's breath in my body. You're not going to grow up to be a faggot. You're going to Redemption House tomorrow. They deal with situations like this all the time. They can fix you."_

_Michael had no idea what Redemption House was, nor did he care at the moment. He didn't want anyone to fix him. All he wanted was to get as far away from his father as he could. He wanted Claire. He needed her like he needed air to breathe._

_"Tomorrow, you're going to get an education, son," he said softly._

 

"Mr. Golland?"

Trudy's hesitant voice jerked him violently back from the past. He continued to stare out the window while he waited for her to continue.

"I'm sorry to bother you, but you said you wanted these files to look over before your first interview."

Michael swallowed down the bile rising up in his throat. "Put them on my desk."

He listened with disinterest as she did what she was told, leaving the room without another word. He stayed at the window, staring at the city spread out before him. He often wondered what had happened to Dari. He'd been gone by the time Michael had gotten back to the house, and he'd been too scared to ask anyone what had happened to him. He liked to think his father had taken him to a homeless shelter or maybe the church, until his parents had been able to get him. He wanted to believe his mother would have never allowed any harm to come to the boy. But to this day, he was still unsure.

As Michael stared out at the vista before him, he wondered if Dari was out there somewhere, or if he was back in Mexico living in squalor, or if he was dead.

 

**PAUL GOLLAND, SR.**

 


	6. Daniel's Lunch

“Is he in?”

Trudy glanced down at what Daniel had in his hand and gave him a What-The-Hell-Are-You-Thinking look.  “Yeah, he’s in there, and no appointments until 1:30,” she answered.

“Show tunes?” he asked.

She actually giggled. “Disney soundtracks.”

It was astounding the girl still had a sense of humor. She either loved being Executive Secretary to an asshole or she needed the money really badly. Not hard to figure that one out. He offered her his fist. They bumped knuckles and grinned at each other.  “You’re all right, Trudy.”

“Thanks,” she said. Then she lowered her voice. “Watch yourself. He’s an expert at social castration, if you know what I mean.”

Daniel gave her a reassuring nod. His balls had acquired a strong coating of steel throughout the years, starting at the age of twelve and continuing on through his teens. The constant bullying and the continuous fights with other boys who, for some unknown reason, had been threatened by his sexuality had toughened him up pretty quickly. He’d been called every foul name in the book as well as kicked in every possible part of his body that could be reached with a shoe. He’d cried enough tears into his pillow to fill an ocean. He doubted Michael had any original material; Daniel had heard it all.

Trudy said if she buzzed Michael, letting him know he had a visitor, he would most likely turn him away. He liked to spend his lunches alone. So, she grinned and announced that she had a sudden, and very intense, urge to go to the bathroom, and that she sure hoped no one got past her desk and into Michael’s office. But, hey, it wouldn’t be her fault, right? She winked at him and scurried off. He wondered, as he walked toward the massive wooden doors, if Michael had any idea just how sneaky his little secretary was.

He wiped the amusement from his face and pushed the doors open. Michael was standing at the windows looking out. The first detail Daniel noticed was that he wasn’t wearing his suit jacket. He’d never seen Michael without one. The sight of his form-fitting white dress shirt hugging his slender torso, and his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his light gray designer slacks—which fit his fine ass like a sexy linen glove—sent Daniel’s sex-starved libido into overdrive. _Ass-fucking hot._ The description flashed through his mind like a blowtorch, searing his brain cells together and making him forget what he was going to say.

Michael’s head turned and his body visibly stiffened. “Yet another person who doesn’t understand the concept of knocking.”

“Trudy wasn’t at her desk,” he said, shrugging. He crossed the short distance to the four-chair grouping and sat the two vinyl lunch bags on the small table in the middle of them. “Even the great Michael Golland’s secretary has to take a piss once in a while, so it’s not her fault I’m rude. Anyway, I made us both lunch.”

He wanted to laugh at the shock on Michael’s face, but he pretended he hadn’t seen it and instead plopped down in one of the soft chairs and began to unpack their lunch.

“I have a fully stocked kitchen with gourmet food in it,” Michael said coldly, nodding his head in the direction of a door on the other side of the room. “And I outgrew cartoon character lunch pails a long time ago.”

Daniel looked up at him and grinned, ignoring the haughtiness in Michael’s voice. “You never outgrow Iron Man and Superman.” He gestured to the chair across from him. “Come on, sit. I don’t have a two-hour lunch like you do.” Without waiting for Michael to respond, he started preparing the sandwiches. “I have homemade chicken salad on wheat, sun tea, and a surprise for dessert.”

Michael’s expression hadn’t warmed in the slightest, and his blue eyes were like shards of ice as they met Daniel’s. “Apparently I’m not making myself clear. Get out of my office. _Now._ ”

Daniel had never met a man who had him dreaming of licking his body from head to toe one moment and then wanting to rip his balls off the next, all in the space of a few minutes. But he was damned if he was going to give up. Michael’s sexiness outweighed his rudeness by leaps and bounds. He was going to break though the wall this man had around himself no matter what it took, and he was going to get those fancy clothes off of him in the process. Of course, Michael being annoyingly straight was a bit of a snag, but he would cross that bridge later.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re a little skinny,” he said, struggling to keep a straight face. “A good Santa Ana would blow you off the sidewalk. You need some protein and calories.”

Michael glared, but said nothing.

“And that’s not even taking into consideration blood sugar levels. You have to eat regular meals or your sugar drops and you feel like shit. Making other people’s lives miserable takes energy.”

He watched Michael’s expression and he could almost see the man’s thought processes like a film playing on his face. He could even provide the subtitles: _‘I hate this fucking fag bastard, but I can’t think of a way to get rid of him short of calling security and making a huge scene, which will make me look like I can’t even handle one little annoying employee without calling for Robo-Cop back up. So, maybe I’ll let him stay and fuck with him a little while just for grins and giggles.’_

“You’re a pushy, arrogant bastard,” Michael observed as he pulled his hands from his pockets and reluctantly sat down opposite Daniel.

He had to laugh at that one, because it was true. “I prefer the words persistent and confident, but I’m okay with bastard. I’ve been called worse.”

“I’m sure you have,” Michael said smugly. “Did you put grapes in the chicken salad, because I won’t eat it unless it has grapes in it. And not white grapes either. They have to be red, seedless and in season, and in the right proportion. Too few grapes and chicken salad is bland and inedible.”

 _Fucking Jesus, what a control freak A-hole. It’s just chicken salad, dude. Lighten up._ How his broken filter managed to keep that biting comment inside his mouth, he had no idea. He could already see that socializing with Michael Golland was going to be more of an exercise in restraint than anything remotely enjoyable. Although pecking away at that stone wall surrounding Michael was extremely entertaining. There was nothing more fun than teasing someone who acted like their ass would crack wide open if they actually smiled.

Daniel rolled his eyes. “Of course it has red, seedless grapes in it, and in the right proportion. My chicken salad is the shit.”

Michael grimaced. “You’re crude.”

“And you’re an uptight snob,” he shot back.

If this lunch were an episode from a Saturday morning cartoon, Michael would have smoke rolling out of his ears and there would be a bunch of curse word symbols in a conversation bubble over his head. He was pissed but he was controlling it. If they were going to play the insult game, then Michael had picked the wrong opponent. Daniel’s repertoire was as vast and limitless as the universe.

Michael stared at the food on the table and lightly drummed his index finger on the cloth arm of the chair. That one nervous “tell” made him want to smile all over himself. He’d found a small crack in that wall: he didn’t like being called a snob.

“What about nuts?” Michael asked.

Daniel smiled with feigned sadness. “No nuts. I was afraid you might be allergic. Then I’d be faced with the moral dilemma of whether to call 911 or not because, in my opinion, the world need fewer asshole millionaires who think they’re better than everyone else.”

It took a few seconds but eventually that beautiful mouth of his twitched into the tiniest of smiles, and that frigid blue gaze sparkled with amusement.

“Oh. My. God. Did you just smile??” Daniel asked with exaggerated shock.

And quick as that, the smile was gone, replaced by another one of his trademark glares. He was sure that if a hard object would have been within reach of his fingers, Michael would have thrown it at him.  Without another word, Michael leaned forward and picked up the sandwich. He looked at it, turned it over and lifted the top piece of bread, closely inspecting the inside like he worked for the USDA and was searching for salmonella cooties. The man was being a complete dick and he was doing it on purpose.

He finally took a bite. His eyebrows rose in surprise as he chewed. “It’s actually pretty good,” he said after he’d swallowed.

Daniel acknowledged the half-assed compliment in silence for a change. His chicken salad wasn’t ‘pretty good’, it was epic, but he wasn’t going to quibble over the details. The next few minutes passed without conversation as they both enjoyed their lunch. Michael even commented on the perfect brew of the tea, which he said hardly anyone got right. He pitied the poor menial servant whose job it was to cook Michael's meals.

After the last bite of chicken salad was consumed, Michael took a long drink of tea and then cleared his throat. “So, what is your favorite medium?”

He was at a loss for words for a few moments. He’d never expected Michael to start any kind of meaningful conversation that didn’t involve an insult or a glare. He appeared to be genuinely interested.

“Charcoals.”

“Why?”

Michael also had an annoying habit of asking questions no one else cared about. He'd never had to explain his feelings about a particular medium to an ordinary person before. Only artists enjoyed long, animated conversations over which medium was the best, easiest, cheapest, most versatile, et cetera, and they could debate the topic for hours while consuming copious amounts of beer and pizza.

“I like the immediacy of them. They’re quick and easy. No preparation needed. You can catch moments in time with just a piece of paper and a pencil. Fill in the details later at your leisure.”

Michael’s finger pecked out a soft rhythm on the chair arm again. “I’m surprised it’s not aerosols.”

 _Oh, what a persistent prick you are, Michael Golland._ Daniel deliberately waited a few beats before answering. He couldn’t afford to let this guy ruffle his feathers or make him say the wrong thing and tighten the noose around his and Cam’s throats.  “Aerosols are a quick way to get high or paint your patio furniture, but they’re a cumbersome medium for artistic works.”

Michael raised an eyebrow. “Apparently they’re not for some, because there are thousands of these idiots’ names sprayed on walls all over this city.”

“You’re talking about tagging. That’s a quick throw-up that’s usually done on the spur of the moment with a few cans of spray. Murals are a different story. They’re just like an oil painting, except on a much bigger canvas. You have to plan the design on paper, take precise measurements and scale it to fit the building. You have to take into account the surface you’re painting. Is it porous or smooth? That determines how much spray and sealant you have to buy. Then there are the permits, the scaffolding and the weather to consider. It’s not a quick and easy medium. And a good-sized mural takes a hell of a lot of paint. It’s expensive.”

Michael held Daniel’s gaze for an uncomfortably long time. “Then someone went to a whole lot of trouble to deface our building. All that time and money invested and they got absolutely no return out of it. Why would someone do that?”

 _I don’t know, maybe because your company treats homosexuals like they’re subhuman? Because you manipulate your own employee handbook to fire people for the most ridiculous infractions, when you’re actually just getting rid of them because they’re gay or lesbian? Or maybe it’s because your upper echelon is nothing but a bunch of homophobic bigots who think they can break the law without consequences? Or maybe it’s because the really important things in life aren’t columns on a balance sheet?_ He couldn’t say what he really thought, so he shrugged his shoulders. “I have no idea.”

Michael accepted defeat pretty well. He crossed his legs at the knee in that priggish way only rich men seemed to be able to get away with and arrogantly swept his gaze over Daniel’s clothes, from his blue-checked button-up shirt—which was presently unbuttoned and layered over a plain white tee—to his eight-pocket khakis, and finally his navy blue canvas shoes.

“Do you have stock in their company?” he asked, referring to Daniel’s Converse.

And this time, Daniel's broken filter stayed broken. The snob shit was getting a little old. “Maybe if you included a generous clothing allowance in my compensation package, I could dress to suit you,” he said snidely.

Michael surprised him by laughing, which transformed the bone structure in his face from starkly angular to round and boyish. “There isn’t enough money.”

It was Daniel’s turn to wish there was an anvil handy that he could toss on the fucker’s head. He also fervently prayed his cock was way bigger than Michael’s. Then at least he would have one thing he could lord over him, that is if he ever got a chance to see it.

“I thought people like you were supposed to come with a built-in sense of style,” Michael continued, smirking.

His temper was starting to simmer. “People like me? What the hell does that mean?”   _Oh, please say it. Please, please, PLEASE call me a faggot, a queer, or a cocksucker. I’ll take any of them, just fucking say it so I can shove it down your throat and blow it out your ass with California labor law._

“A Bohemian is what I meant,” Michael explained with a smarmy smile.

They both knew that was not what he meant, but Daniel let it go and decided to change the subject before his temper came to a rolling boil. “So, what do you do for fun?”

Getting meaningful nouns, verbs and adjectives out of Michael Golland was like trying to pull teeth without an opposable thumb. He was irritatingly evasive and continually tried to shift the conversation away from himself. But Daniel gathered a few interesting tidbits along the way. He didn’t own a television (Daniel couldn’t conceive of life without a TV), he read everything he could get his hands on about any topic that interested him, (Daniel’s library consisted mostly of art books and _Details_ magazines), he worked out in his own private gym, (Daniel paid an outrageous fee to sweat alongside a bunch of grunting ‘roiders), and he liked to play billiards (which Daniel, and all other normal people of the world, referred to as pool).

“Is there anyone special in your life?” As soon as the words left his mouth, he wished he could yank them back. He fully expected Michael to tell him to go fuck himself and then throw him out, but the curiosity was killing him.

“Actually there is,” Michael answered, totally surprising him with his unexpected honesty. “Claire. She’s the most beautiful soul I’ve met in this life.”

Daniel was stunned, not only at the revelation that Michael had a girlfriend, but also at his heartfelt description of her. His hopes sank. This drop-dead gorgeous man, who he wanted to kiss until he couldn’t breathe, was already taken. He was surprised to realize he hated this Claire chick and he didn’t even know her. The bitch had what he wanted, not just Michael’s luscious body, but she had his heart. Jealousy was a new emotion for him and his insides were turning a putrid green from it.

“She’s everything a man could want,” Michael continued, speaking softly and holding Daniel’s gaze. “She’s always there for me, and I’m always there for her. We give each other everything the other one needs.” He sighed, then smiled. “So what about you?” Michael asked. “You have someone special?”

He was still trying to recover from the fact that he’d lost Michael before he’d even gotten him, not that he’d stood a chance anyway. The man obviously loved women and one woman in particular. Cameron was right. Michael had no interest in anything he had to offer. The truth didn’t just hurt, it fucking stung like a bitch.

“No,” Daniel said, fighting to keep his voice normal and not let his dejection show. “I’ve been out of the dating scene for awhile. The pickings are slim around here.”

“I imagine a good fag is hard to find,” Michael said, smirking.

Conversation thudded to a stop. The man had said it. He’d finally fucking said the word and Daniel wasn’t about to let that shit pass. It wasn’t that the word offended him—he’d heard worse—but it was the context. Michael was a representative of the company and they were having a conversation in his office.

Daniel chuckled arrogantly. “Fag? Seriously?? Is that the best you can come up with, because ‘fag’ is so 1999, Michael. If you’re going to insult someone, at least get a little creative: fudge packer, friend of Dorothy, butt pirate, and Irish Creamer are a few good ones. Oh, and do I need to remind you that it is illegal in the state of California for you to make reference to my sexual orientation, whatever it may be, during work hours?”

“You seem to know a lot about the law,” he observed smoothly.

“My father read case law to me as bedtime stories. He’s an attorney.”

“Yes, I know.” Michael's lips thinned into an angry slash across his face. “A fact you failed to mention at your interview.”

“A fact you failed to _ask_ me at my interview, and there weren’t any blanks on my application asking for my father’s occupation, either. Nondisclosure of that which isn’t required is not illegal or unethical.”

They stared at each other in angry silence. He hadn’t done anything wrong and Michael knew it. He was just being an ass because he’d dropped the ball.

“So you’re daddy’s little spy,” he said, and Daniel did not appreciate his condescending tone. He wasn’t anybody’s anything. He was Daniel Fucking Hart.

He leaned forward and looked that bastard straight in the eye. “No. I’m an artist employed by Golland Enterprises & Marketing. My father just happens to be an attorney specializing in discrimination against homosexuals in the workplace. The two have nothing to do with each other—“ he stood and started stuffing everything back into the lunch pails. “—as long as _you_ follow the law. And I’m not anyone’s fucking spy!”

He'd almost forgotten about dessert. He dug around in one of the lunch bags until he found the small, cylindrical package. “Here’s your dessert. It’s a fag joke, by the way. Google it if you’re interested.”

He threw the chocolate Ho-Ho in Michael’s lap and stalked out of the room.

_So much for the lunch idea…._

 


	7. Deidra

Michael hated days when the clouds blocked the sun. He took it personally, as if those vaporous masses of moisture knew how much the morning sun meant to him, and they were purposely blocking his view just to ruin his day. He sighed aloud at the overcast sky just beyond his office windows. The earth’s mood today matched his own: dull, gray and listless. There was no enjoyment to be had with this morning’s sunrise, so he took his coffee and returned to his desk.

The unopened Ho-Ho sat on his blotter right in front of his tape and stapler. He’d almost tossed the thing in the trash numerous times, but had finally decided to keep it. He might as well let it decorate his desk for a little while, because he sure as hell wasn't going to eat it. It served him better as a reminder of the disastrous lunch than a pleasurable dessert. He was not going to allow Daniel to throw him off balance again.

As he’d left the office yesterday, he'd stopped at Trudy’s desk and had given her strict instructions to keep Daniel Hart out of his office until further notice—no more unannounced entrances or spur-of-the-moment lunch dates or else she’d be in the unemployment line faster than she could say food stamps. She'd objected to his reprimand, saying she had no control over what happened while she was in the bathroom, and was she supposed to hold it all day?? Trudy was an excellent secretary—which was the only reason Michael overlooked her occasional attitude—but she had an independent streak that annoyed him. He'd stressed to her that she'd better figure something out, because if Daniel got by her desk one more time without being announced, she was gone. He'd find someone else who could actually do the job they'd been hired to do.

He needed a day without distractions so he could think and regroup. Things had not gone well with Daniel yesterday. He couldn’t believe he'd wasted an entire weekend formulating the perfect plan to get in the man’s good graces and develop a fake friendship with him just long enough to gather proof to fire him, and it had all fallen apart within minutes. He’d been caught off guard, first by Daniel entering his office without knocking, then with the ridiculous idea of the two of them sharing a lunch together. He'd felt like the queen in a tense game of chess, thinking himself safe from harm, but suddenly finding himself checkmated and toppled without any warning. It was maddening how much the man irritated him. Daniel was so ungodly arrogant, rude, and had the potential to be a major pain in his ass if he wasn’t careful. But he was also amusing and interesting.

Michael sighed aloud at the dichotomy that was Daniel Tobias Hart. He shouldn’t like the faggot with his Wal-mart wardrobe and tacky sneakers, but he found it impossible not to. No one in recent memory had possessed the balls to stand up to him like Daniel had. GEM was full to the brim with pathetic ass-kissers who would say or do anything to keep their job and social standing. They might think it, but they would never say it in front of him. He chuckled aloud to the empty room as he tried to recall the last person who had said ‘Fuck you’ to his face. No one came to mind.

Michael’s laugh faded into a sly grin as he remembered their short conversation about Claire. He’d been surprised at how easily Daniel had been fooled. He'd had to fight to keep from laughing at the expression on Daniel's face when he’d revealed his love for Claire. The dunce had bought the ludicrous lie without question; he truly believed Michael had a girlfriend. The good thing was now maybe Daniel would stop staring a hole in his face, and running those eyes all over his body every time they were in the same room. It was infuriating.

Michael stared at the disgusting lump of chocolate cholesterol and smirked, deciding to let Daniel stew in his own juices for a few days. Then he would turn the tables on the cocky bastard, yank that tacky rug he was standing on right out from under his feet, and knock him completely off balance. Let him see how that felt. And no matter how entertaining Daniel was, it was going to be thoroughly enjoyable watching him fall when he finally found the proof that he was Joystyk.

His office door swung open unexpectedly, interrupting his pleasant thoughts. Michael looked up and silently cursed as his father once again strode unannounced into his office.

“Camilla is not happy.”

Like he gave a fuck. “Good morning to you too, father.”

His father ignored the sarcastic jibe and continued, “She called me late last night. Seems the balance on her bank card is considerably less than the last time she attended an event with you. She said there’s not nearly enough there for her to be presentable tonight.”

Michael shrugged. “Poor Camilla. So she might have to wear the same dress twice. I doubt she'll die. Tell her to shut her mouth and do what she’s told and she won’t have a bank card problem next time. She ruined my entire evening at that last party. I don’t reward bad behavior by throwing more money at it.”

His father leaned forward and placed his palms on the edge of Michael’s desk, staring him down. “You haven’t listened to anything I’ve tried to teach you. Women, especially beautiful women, are an asset, just like your cash, stocks and bonds. They’re investment capital, and you treat them as such. A beautiful and successful woman on your arm is as important as having a balanced portfolio. They help you project an image to the community, one of stability and good character, _if_ you’re careful who you choose. You know Camilla’s family and they will not take kindly to you mistreating her, publicly or otherwise. Nor will I.”

_Fuck Camilla’s family, and fuck YOU, dearest Daddy._

The public scrutiny was the one thing about his life that he found nearly intolerable. He despised the attention he garnered at these ridiculous events he had to attend, the interviews with the lifestyle editors of magazines, the photos of him with some beautiful heiress bitch of LA attached to his arm like a blood-swelled leech. He loathed having to pretend to be a god-like, philanthropic angel to the unwashed masses of the city. ‘Look at us, the Gollands. We’re rich and beautiful people, and we’re so happy to share our massive and undeserved wealth with the poor and downtrodden in our city, which deserve it more than us because they’ve been dealt a bad hand in life.’ _Bullshit._

“You will not hurt her,” his father commanded softly. “Do you understand me?”

Michael smirked. “Of course I won’t, _if_ she does what she’s told.”

His father straightened, then shook his head. “I know what goes on in that penthouse of yours. Women talk and what I’ve been hearing makes me sick. Apparently, my attempts to educate you all these years have been a waste of my time. Nothing about you is normal, never has been, and apparently is never going to be. But I’m warning you. If you hurt her tonight, I will personally see to it that you regret it for a very long time. Just take her to dinner, smile for the cameras, take her home and everyone will be happy.”

His poor father obviously had his head in the sand where his precious Camilla was concerned. She was the daughter of one of the wealthiest Catholic families in the city, but she loved cock more than a fat kid loved cake. She’d professed a deep and profound longing for Michael’s cock, a pleasure he gleefully continued to deny her. Her biggest problem, and the one that caused the most friction between them, was that she wasn’t very good at following his orders. Her lack of obedience was appalling. As far as submissives went, she was a dismal failure. Tormenting her was the only real pleasure he got from their encounters.

Michael didn’t acknowledge the threat or the insult. He'd heard it all before. As far as he was concerned, what he did in the privacy of his own bedroom was none of his father’s damned business. He had never interfered in his father’s fucked up private life—there was enough deviance there to keep a psych major busy for decades—and he expected the same consideration.

“Oh, and you’ll never guess who my date is.” His father’s change of subject and shift in tone immediately set his alarm bells to ringing.

“Who?”

He smiled and it sent chills up Michael’s back. “Deidra. You remember her, don’t you?”

 _Deidra._ Just the sound of her name shriveled his balls and made the acid in his stomach churn. He remembered her all right, but he didn’t want to. He hated Deidra almost as much as he hated his father.

“Of course I remember her,” Michael said, careful to keep his voice steady and calm.

“She definitely remembers _you_.” His father winked, smiling crookedly. “She hopes to get a chance to speak with you tonight. To catch up. Relive old memories. That sort of thing.”

The thought of seeing her again, hearing that throaty voice everyone thought was so sexy, looking into her empty eyes that no amount of make up could make warm, or feeling the touch of her perfectly manicured claws made Michael sick to his stomach. He fought the nausea as he tried to come up with an appropriate response.

“I doubt Camilla will approve,” he said coolly. “If you’ll excuse me, Father, I have some work to do before my first appointment.”

His father smiled arrogantly before turning and leaving. Michael barely made it to the small bathroom in his office, gagging into the toilet as he tried to block out the past.

* * *

 

The second the limo doors slammed shut, Michael began delivering his instructions to his date.

“It’s absurd that I have to go through these every single time we’re together, but you obviously have short term memory loss,” he said to Camilla as he stared straight ahead at the darkened glass barrier that separated them from the driver. “Do not touch me without my permission, or unless I touch you first. Don’t engage me in conversation. I have no interest in anything you have to say. Your only job on these… _dates_ …is to pretend you adore me, smile graciously for the cameras, and give intelligent answers without saying anything meaningful. For example: 'I admire GEM and the Golland family for their overwhelming generosity to the community.' Blah blah, blah. Just give them what they want to hear.”

He felt her stare but refused to look at her. The initial, and necessary, inspection of her appearance was all she was going to get from him. Apparently, her pathetically small bank card—which she’d complained about—had been enough after all. Her dark brown hair had been styled in a lavish mound on the back of her head, with some left trailing down her shoulder. Her face had been perfectly applied over her porcelain skin. The red strapless dress screamed expensive and hugged her curves, showing just enough cleavage to make some men look twice without giving her away for the whore she really was. She could have worn her plastic tits on the outside of her dress for all he cared. He wouldn’t have given them a second look.

“You look absolutely edible in that blue suit,” she purred. “It matches your eyes.”

His first impulse was to slap the hell out of her, but he gritted his teeth instead. “Breaking the rules already, Camilla? You must not want my cock as much you say you do. Your lack of obedience is the main reason why I continue to deny you that pleasure.”

Which was a fucking lie. He’d rather cum in his vacuum cleaner hose than put his cock inside her filthy cunt. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and smiled when she sank back into the leather seats, pouting. She’d break every rule he’d laid down before the evening was over. She always did. He could hardly wait for this tediousness to be done so he could take her back to his penthouse and have some fun.

* * *

 

He was roasting in the suit and dying to ditch the tie, sick of giving interviews and disgusted at the number of women who had tried to hit on him, and at a charity event, no less. The entire thing was nothing but a theatrical farce and the wealthy who attended were pathetically stilted actors just playing a role society expected of them. Nobody in the cavernous ball room cared about immigrants. They cared about being seen and talked about in the local gossip rags.

Camilla was being her normal bitchy, pouting self. No surprise there. He’d actually had to threaten to send her home in a taxi if she didn’t stop touching him without his permission. But she had ended up being fairly useful, for once. She was extremely effective at chasing away her competitors with just one little murderous stare. It was rather touching when Michael thought about it. Camilla was like a sleek lioness slut, protecting her captured prey from the other skanky predators who wanted to drag it off to the corner and consume it in a frenzy of teeth and claws. It was too bad she wasn’t even going to get a bite of her own kill. She’d repeatedly broken every one of his rules within the first hour.

 _No cock for Camilla._ He chuckled at his own joke, but that humor evaporated in an instant when he locked eyes with Deidra. She was making her way through the crowd and moving in his direction. He searched the immediate area for his disobedient lioness, but she'd picked that inopportune moment to wander off and chat with one of her numerous friends. He was on his own.

Deidra stopped a couple of feet in front of him and inspected him like he was up for sale on the cattle market. Michael wanted to run, but his feet felt like cement blocks holding him fast to the floor. He was livid at his own weakness and hated himself for the fear that suddenly rose up and gnawed at his gut. She was nothing but a whore with absolutely no heart or morals. She was his past. He should be over all of that by now. But he wasn't.

"Don't you look delicious," she said, slowly running her tongue along the edge of her upper lip. "And oh so fuckable."

He gritted his teeth to keep from letting out a string of profanities. Showing his ass among his father's friends wouldn't be the smartest move.

She dropped her gaze to his groin, smirked at whatever she saw, then flicked her eyes back up to his. "I'd love to take another ride on that."

The thought sickened and enraged him. He despised his father for inviting her here, for bringing her name up to him, and especially for encouraging a reunion. He had to know that Michael wouldn't touch this foul piece of shit if she was last human left on the earth.  "Fuck you, bitch," he snarled, shocked that he was even able to utter a coherent sentence, let alone give voice to the submerged anger that had eaten away at him for years.

She chuckled low in her throat. "The little penis has grown up to be a big dick. How utterly predictable. But you really should be thanking me... _baby boy_...instead of insulting me."

 _Baby boy._ An innocent and endearing phrase that only this filthy whore could manage to twist into something ugly and perverse. He'd eliminated that combination of words from his vocabulary a long time ago, but they still stalked him in his nightmares.

"My goodness. I leave your side for a few moments and come back to find you fraternizing with the help." Camilla was, once again, by his side with her cat claws fully unsheathed. He grabbed her hand and squeezed, holding on to the only lifeline available to him at the moment. He could tell she was surprised at his sudden burst of public affection, but she wisely withheld comment. He was sure he would hear about it later.

"I'm not the help," Deidre answered, lifting her chin the tiniest bit. "Michael and I are friends from way back."

He squeezed Camilla's hand even tighter and wondered how she managed to keep from wincing.

"Well, I'm his friend from right now, and we were just leaving."

He forced his head to move, giving Deidra a minuscule nod of acknowledgment before allowing Camilla to drop his hand, grab his arm and pull him away.

"Think of me, baby boy," Deidra said, raising her voice just enough that it carried over his shoulder and stabbed itself into his ears. "She'll never be as good as me."

 

DEIDRA (Played by Sheridan Smith)


	8. I'm Broken

“Who was that blonde Barbie?”

Michael slammed the door behind them and flicked the gold light switch. If the fixture had been made out of cheap plastic, the force of his anger would have ripped it right out of the wall. The main room glowed warmly with subdued lighting but the calming effect was lost on him. He ignored Camilla’s question and focused on gaining control of himself. Seeing Deidra after so many years had thrown him off balance worse than anything in recent memory. With just a few well-chosen words she’d awakened a cesspool of emotions in him he’d thought were gone. Camilla had tried to get him to talk about her in the car, but his threat of dumping her ass out onto the grimy sidewalk had dampened her curiosity considerably.

“Shut up!” he snapped.

He felt her eyes on him as he shed his suit jacket and draped it over the nearest chair, taking care to fold it so the linen wouldn’t wrinkle. He methodically emptied his pockets, placing the contents neatly onto the glass coffee table in an arrangement that was pleasing to his eye. He took a deep cleansing breath then slowly unknotted his tie, savoring the sensual feel of the silk against his fingers, sliding it from beneath his collar, folding it, and placing it gently over his jacket. He unlaced his shoes, pried them off, and carefully retied them, placing them neatly side-by-side near the chair. By the time he began to unfasten his belt, he was calm and back in control. He held Camilla’s dark eyes while he tugged the leather strap through the confining loops until it was free. It dangled from his hand as he slowly approached her.

“Where are we, Camilla?”  She didn’t answer, which pleased him. He’d reminded her of the rules earlier in the evening, and he was in no mood to repeat himself.  “Answer,” he commanded.

“Your penthouse, sir.” Her voice was soft and deferential, which pleased him even more.

“You do not question me.”

He saw a spark of defiance flicker in her eyes and tightened his grip on the belt.

“But she scared you. Why?”

As soon as the hurried words passed her lips she knew she’d made a mistake. He jacked his arm back and cracked the leather against her thigh with enough force to make her cry out and feel the sharp sting even through the fabric of her dress. He felt the pleasant tug of an erection as she struggled to deal with the sudden onslaught of pain without crying.

Camilla was into “fair weather fuckery”, as he liked to call it. Give her a playful spank with the paddle here, a tiny pinch of her nipple there, a pretty little hot pink dildo shoved into her perfectly manicured pussy and she fancied herself a hardcore BDSM whore, and liked to brag with superiority to her rich-bitch friends that she “practiced the lifestyle.” In reality, she was a spoiled brat who was used to getting her way, and therefore a pathetic pseudo-submissive who would always be “in training”. She had absolutely no real-life understanding of obedience. Intense pain terrified her, therefore he never hesitated to use that weakness to control her.

He stepped closer until only a few inches separated their bodies. He tenderly pushed a strand of her hair that had gotten loose from the salon up-do away from her cheek and tucked it behind her delicate ear. “Don’t fuck with me tonight.”

He supposed she could see in his eyes that his patience with her had reached its end. He put up with a lot from her, but his understanding stopped at his penthouse door. This space was his sanctuary in the city—the only place that was truly his. Inside these walls, he was in control, and no one else. Anyone who tried to shift that power dynamic in their favor got the hell beat out of them. He’d only had to resort to that level of violence once. His ass had landed in jail for it, but he’d never regretted it for a minute.

“Yes sir,” she said softly, and his cock twitched in response to her subservience.

“Undress.”

He watched with only mild interest as she followed his order. She started with the bracelet, necklace and earrings, tossing them thoughtlessly onto the nearest flat surface. Then she presented her back to him so he could help with the zipper. He yanked it down then stepped back, watching her shimmy the red sheath down her torso and onto the floor. He was surprised that she was completely naked underneath, as he’d instructed. More than once, she’d taken it upon herself to don a lacy bra or a tiny thong in hopes of enticing him to actually fuck her.

After prying off her shoes, she stood naked before him awaiting his instructions. He studied her, not because he found her body appealing, but to try and figure out why it wasn’t. He instinctively knew a normal man would have had a boner by now just from the anticipation alone—his father certainly would have—but his cock was still mostly limp. Her large globular tits, or the hidden crevice between her slender thighs, did nothing for him. He felt nothing but contempt for the female form. Controlling women was the only thing about them that excited him. Inflicting pain was also pleasurable, but not because he derived actual enjoyment from hurting them. His sexual satisfaction came from the resultant obedience that punishment always carried with it. Redemption House had been right on the money about one thing: he was definitely not normal. He was infinitely broken—he’d accepted that long ago—and his life now was nothing more than an excruciatingly long exercise in trying to hold the pieces together in some semblance of order.

“Room two,” he ordered.

He ignored the surprise he saw on her face. He’d never taken her to two. She knew that room was reserved for his strongest and most obedient women, of which she wasn’t one, and never would be one. Shifting her gaze to the floor, she turned and made her way down the short hall to the guest room that he never used for actual sleeping.  

The room was empty of the usual bedroom accoutrements, replaced with an array of BDSM paraphernalia. His latest acquisition, a stockade in black oak, stood in the middle of the floor waiting to be broken in. He’d had no idea what he was specifically going to use it for when he’d bought it. It had been an impulse purchase; he’d fallen in love with the barbaric, primitive look of it. He’d gotten hard just from picturing in his mind a woman being held captive by the strong planks of solid wood with iron manacles around her ankles, her ass bared and vulnerable to whatever he wanted to do to it.

“Camilla.”

When she raised her head, he gestured to the stockade. He saw curiosity and just a little fear in her eyes, which pleased him. With a few clear instructions and a minimal amount of touching, he got her fastened in. The moment he slid the manacles onto her feet, blood surged to his cock, giving him an amazing power rush. She was bent over at the waist in a perfect L shape, her head and arms tightly encased in leather-padded oak. Her legs were spread wide, her feet held fast to the wood platform by the steel restraints around her ankles. He bit back a groan as his cock twitched and hardened. Just the sight of a woman bound and helpless flat out did it for him, and got him going like nothing else; not even porn could get him this aroused this quickly. He supposed a good shrink could have a field day with that, but he already knew the reason he loved bondage so much: it gave him complete control, but most importantly, it guaranteed no touching. He fucking hated being touched by anyone.

_“Mmmm, what a beautiful baby boy you are. Your skin is so soft. Even this is soft and silky…”_

Flashes of Deidra’s manicured red talons running all over his body sent a cold shiver down his back. _Fucking cunt._ He thought he’d exorcised her from his life completely, but apparently jagged slivers of her were still deeply embedded into his psyche, just waiting to eviscerate him at her convenience.  He struggled to gain control of his temper and not take it out on Camilla. Not that he gave a fuck if he hurt her in the process of getting off, but his father’s threats weren’t to be taken lightly. He’d been clearly warned not to harm her, but his father hadn’t mentioned a word about torment and humiliation.

He walked around to the front of the stockade. Her head was conveniently level with his groin, but that didn’t matter, not tonight. A blow job was the last thing he wanted. He squatted down and looked up at her.  “Guess what?”

She didn’t answer—which was smart—but she was paying attention. He could tell by the light dancing in her eyes she was still a little afraid, but was also bursting with curiosity.

“I’m going to give you what you’ve been begging for.” He smiled when her brown eyes grew huge with shock. “I’m going to fuck you tonight. Our first time.”

He described in great pornographic detail what he was going to do to her: how he was going to slide his cock inside of her hot pussy—slowly at first, so she could become accustomed to his size—then he was going tease her mercilessly with it. Rub her clit with his tip until it was swollen and aching, then fuck her hard for ten or twenty deep strokes. Then he’d pull out and make her beg him to continue. If she was an obedient girl, he’d give her more, any way she wanted it. If she wanted him to fuck her for an hour straight, or even two, he’d put on a cock ring and he’d do that for her, because she was a beautiful and desirable woman, even if she did have difficulty obeying him sometimes.

Of course, he wasn’t going to do any of that bullshit, but she didn’t have to know that… _yet._

“Are you wet?”

She knew better than to answer unless he’d instructed her to, so she gave him a pitiful whimper instead, and humped the air with her exposed ass. _Pathetic._

He stood and began the preparations for his descent into hell. He slowly unbuttoned his shirt as he considered what he was about to do. He’d never done this before because it was wrong. That fact had been hammered into his brain since age twelve. He’d been sent to Redemption House for just sliding the tip of his friend’s dick into his mouth, but the reparative therapists had taken his education much, much further than that.

He unbuttoned his pants and slid them, along with his underwear, down his legs until they were mid thigh. He never fully undressed with the women he brought here. Too much skin contact always made him queasy. A wet-behind-the-ears psych major fresh out of Psychology 101 could figure that one out.  He slid on a condom, double-checking that it was secure and as snug against the base of his shaft as he could get it. As much as he wanted this, he didn’t want any part of his body touching hers if he could avoid it. He grabbed the tube of lubricating gel and returned to the front of the stockade.

“Look at me.”

She obediently raised her head, and he had to choke down the derisive laugh that nearly burst out of his throat. Her deep brown eyes were smoldering and so filled with lust that it was a wonder she could even see him through the fog. He tried not to think of the glistening slime that was oozing out of her pussy and probably dripping down her thighs by now. He gathered his courage as he prepared to spit in the face of God.

“Just thought you might want to know. I lied. I don’t do pussy, especially when my father has already hit it numerous times. I don’t take Daddy’s sloppy seconds. I’m going to _ass-fuck_ you, because I know for a certainty that Daddy Dearest has never been there.”

The good little Catholic Camilla, who was buried so far beneath her flawlessly tucked and salon-pampered skin as to be invisible, rose up in outrage. “That’s sodomy and a sin!” she yelled. “You can’t do that to me!!”

He grabbed her chin and ground it hard between his fingers. “You have a choice. Give me what I want—willingly—and you get to see me again, and you get…oh…let’s say two thousand extra dollars on your bank card next time in appreciation. You deny me and you get to leave, but you’ll never see me again, and you won’t be able to sit down on that pretty ass of yours by the time I get through with the riding crop. Your choice.”

He released her chin and stepped back, giving her room to think while she watched him fondle himself. He lazily dragged a fingertip up and down his sheathed cock, and then pushed it back against his stomach so she could watch him squeeze and stroke his balls. He so enjoyed torturing her with her own desires: watching him touch himself, teasing her with his cock, lightly touching the tip to her mouth and then pulling it away. He was always dangling the carrot in front of her, but never letting her take a bite. Delicious torment.

He could force her, of course—it wasn’t like she was in any position to get away from him—but the last thing he needed right now was to be accused of rape. So, he was prepared to give her as much time as she needed to decide. It didn’t take long. She nodded twice, her silent signal she wanted permission to speak. He granted it.

“Make it five thousand,” she said.

Instead of being enraged by the idea of her bargaining with him and slapping the arrogance off of her pretty face, he laughed. The bitch was the worst submissive on the planet, but she had balls.  “You are such a predictable, money-grubbing whore,” he said, shaking his head and smirking. “I should flog you until your ass is beet red, but I’m not going to. You’ve got a deal.”

He slathered a generous amount of the gel on his sheathed cock and positioned himself behind her. He swallowed hard, determined that no amount of nausea was going to stop him from doing this. The thought of being inside her was slightly sickening, but the condom would help mitigate that. He hoped. He was just so damned tired of being made to feel like shit beneath his father’s shoe, tired of the religious fanatics in their social circle fucking their whores on Friday, having happy time with their girlfriends and wives on Saturday, and then confessing and praying it all better come Sunday, only to start all over again the next weekend. Constantly preaching about how perversion was ruining the “moral fabric” of our great nation. Who were they to look down on everyone else? Or on him? And why the fuck was he denying himself pleasure? No one else was.

He hoped God was watching, because he was about to give Him the big middle finger.

He knew he should go slowly so he wouldn’t hurt her, but his empathy gene was, unfortunately, grossly under-developed. Much like he dove into the deep end of his pool instead of just sliding into the frigid water inch by inch, he shoved into her all in one long, hard stroke, then stopped. She cried out once and then went quiet, or else it was him who had suddenly vacated the room, leaving her cries behind. He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that his physical form was there in that room, his cock was buried deep in her ass, but the rest of him was gone somewhere else. The sensations racing through his body, the images flashing through his thoughts, the overwhelming surge of lust had him wanting to pound into her flesh without mercy.

He gripped the oak crossbar of the stockade to keep from touching her hips and gritted his teeth as he plunged in and out of her. With his jaw clenched in angry determination, he held the sounds of his own pleasure inside his throat. He never gave voice to it. Never. The women he used never heard a single groan or an oath to God pass his lips. He would never give them the satisfaction of thinking they could control him through his cock.

He closed his eyes, savoring the tightness. If only when he opened them someone else would be there. A man. Any man. He didn’t care who, just as long as it wasn’t any of his father’s stable of cunts who continually hounded him for money and sex. He wanted rough skin, not smooth. He wanted to hear deep, full-throated and masculine groans when he fucked someone, not the strident high-pitched cries that were currently filling the room.

Images flashed through his mind as the pressure started to build: the faces of the various attractive men he’d met throughout his life, but had tried to forget. The things he imagined in his mind pushed him to fuck harder. This was like nothing he’d ever experienced before and he marveled over his own stupidity at being satisfied with just a blow job when he could have had this all along. The only mistake he’d made was not gagging her. The noises coming out of her mouth were distracting and annoying. Determined to shut them out, he relaxed his thoughts, ignoring her and letting his mind wander where it would.

It chose to wander to Daniel Hart, that maddening man with the beautiful light brown eyes and contagious smile. His handsome rugged face swam through Michael’s mind like a siren lounging on the ocean’s edge, tempting him, taunting him, calling him closer. Daniel Hart with his cheap, off-the-rack clothing that somehow managed to hug his ass, and accentuate the muscles underneath. The talent in his hands. And those fingers…

Daniel had gotten a small dollop of chicken salad on his finger and had licked it off without a thought. That crude, ill-mannered gesture was seared into Michael’s brain forever. As he steadily pumped, he imagined that finger sliding into his own mouth. Slow. Sucking on it. Licking it. Then his fucked-up mind twisted the image, warped it around until it was Daniel’s _cock_ , not his finger, which was slowing sliding in and out of his mouth.

The growl started deep in his diaphragm and shot out of his throat as his orgasm suddenly surged up his shaft with a violence and intensity he couldn’t have stopped if he’d wanted to. He caught himself just in time, clenching his teeth together so he wouldn’t yell out the name of the man responsible for the best orgasm he’d had in a very long time. But his mind was screaming it over and over.

“You motherfucking BASTARD!! Didn’t you hear my safe word?!!”

Camilla's loud screech brought him down from his high with an infuriating abruptness. She continued to curse him at the top of her lungs as he carefully removed the sodden condom and tossed it into the nearest trashcan. He’d apparently motherfucking hurt her and had ignored her motherfucking safe word and he was going to regret the motherfucking day he ever saw her, blah, blah, motherfucking blah.

He grabbed a ball gag from a hook on the wall and stuffed it in her mouth. She fought him and screamed as he tightened it, getting strands of her hair caught in it and not giving one big damn. She’d ruined his play, as usual. Next time, the gag would be the first thing he’d put on her. He left her in the room by herself, her muffled cries fading as he made his way to the bathroom at the end of the hall.

First order of business: a shower. He always felt compelled to wash all traces of his dalliances from his skin, even if nothing had gotten on him. It was like feeling the proverbial phantom spider crawling all over you when you knew for a certainty there was nothing there. He'd cleanse himself first, then he'd deal with Camilla's little tantrum.

* * *

 

She was sitting at the kitchen table fully dressed and fuming, her nails pecking an annoying rhythm on the marble tabletop. He leaned his ass against the counter and watched her.

After getting out of the shower and dressing in fresh clothes, he'd found the apartment totally quiet—no muffled curses to be heard. He'd checked on her—pretending he cared about her well-being—and had found her to be perfectly fine. There hadn't been any blood gushing out of her ass, and not even the most miniscule smear could be found anywhere on her thighs. She'd gotten a taste of a good hard ass-fucking and hadn't found it to her liking. Well, tough shit.

"I'm not asking your fucking permission to talk anymore, so if you want to beat the hell out of me just do it now!" she shouted.

He gave her his best indifferent look. He didn't care if she talked to him or not. He wasn't interested in anything she had to say anyway.

"You don't know a single thing about being a dom!" she fumed. "I've read about BDSM. I know how it works. Ignoring a safe word is not allowed! You were hurting me and you totally ignored me!"

He sighed deeply and rolled his eyes. How long was he going to have to endure this shit? The traffic must be really bad tonight for his driver to be so late.

"You don't have anything to say to me??!" Her strident voice bounced off the ceramic walls, making him wish the builders had chosen a more acoustically soothing material for the kitchen.

He looked straight at her, knowing full well she was waiting for an apology, but Hell would freeze over first.  "Here's the deal, Camilla. If you want to continue to prostitute yourself out in the style to which you've become accustomed, then you're going to have to learn to shut the fuck up. I don't care about BDSM. I make my own rules. I do things my way, and I fuck however the hell I want to. Don't like it? Leave. And don't come back. Don't go running to Daddy and complaining about how mean old Michael mistreated you either. Just shut up and go find someone else who'll set up housekeeping in your filthy cunt."

That shut her up.

She stared at him for the longest time and said nothing. Just stared. He stared back. No D&G whore in designer clothes (which he'd paid for, by the way) was going to intimidate him.

"You don't care anything about me, do you?" she asked, her voice trembling, like she was on the verge of tears.

Jesus Christ. Women were so fucking predictable and manipulative. He shrugged. "No, I don't."

"Not even the least little bit."

He shook his head and smiled. "Nope."

She stood up from the table and gave him the strangest look, like she was puzzled or maybe sad? He'd never been good at interpreting women's wildly gyrating emotions.

"You're a beautiful man...on the outside," she observed softly, her eyes roving slowly over his body. "But inside, there's nothing there. Paul is such a nice man. He's kind to me, protective, so loving and passionate. It's hard to believe you came from the same stock. What is wrong with you?"

What was wrong with him, she asked? Was he really that good at hiding it?? To him, it was fucking obvious. He boldly met her gaze and wondered if she had the mental capacity to recognize the truth when she heard it. "I'm broken." Then he shrugged and smirked. "Or I'm just a sadistic asshole. You pick."

She shook her head. "I'm not ever coming here again. I'm going to wait in the lobby for the car. Goodbye."

She left the room without looking back. He sighed with relief when he heard the front door close behind her. He was alone, again, but he was used to it.

What was wrong with him? He chuckled aloud to an empty apartment. What _wasn't_ wrong with him would be the more appropriate question.  And his father was protective, loving and passionate?? Someone needed to shoot Camilla in the head because she was too fucking stupid to live. His father was a waste of human organs.

He tried really hard to find some small bit of regret inside of him for what he'd done to her, but there just wasn't any. He wasn't going to miss her. He had Daniel now, and he was much more entertaining, both in reality _and_ in his fantasies.

 


	9. Michael's Lunch

_“Come on…come on in.”_

_I stood at the entrance of the barn not sure what to do. He was being nice, but I didn’t trust him._

_“I thought you might want to see the horses. I’ve seen you watching me when I take them out for exercise. You like horses, don’t you?”_

_I nodded, because I loved horses and daydreamed about having one of my own. “What about my mother?”_

_He dismissed my question. “We’ll talk about that later. Right now, just enjoy the horses. You can come in and look at them, even touch them if you want. I’ll stay right over here. I won’t move. I promise.”_

_I hesitated. He'd promised me several times he’d stay in that corner and not come near me. I wanted to believe him, because I wanted to finally get a close-up look at the black horse, the one that reminded me of that book, Black Beauty. I took a few steps in and stopped, checking to make sure he was keeping his promise. He was._ _I moved to the four stalls on the right side of the barn. Four amazing horses, each a different color. I nervously watched him out of the corner of my eye as I moved closer to the black one. He was staying away from me just like he'd promised._

_“That black one is named Apache. He’s a beauty, that one. Very feisty, but he won’t hurt you, not unless you do something to provoke him.”_

_I touched Apache's body and something changed deep inside of me. I didn’t know exactly what it was, but it made me feel different, in a good way. I smiled. His hair was so smooth and felt like the silk blouses my mother wore. I never imagined a horse would feel like that. I ran my fingers through the tail, and even though it felt rougher than his body hair, I still loved it. I loved the way it felt against my hand. I stared at the individual strands woven through my fingers and wondered how many there were._

_I lost track of time as I moved from one stall to the next, touching them, patting them, rubbing their bodies and running my fingers through each one’s mane and tail. They didn’t scare me like I thought they would. They seemed to like me. They flicked their ears when I touched them, but other than that, they let me do whatever I wanted._

_“Would you like to become my helper around here? You can come over every Saturday afternoon. I’ll teach you how to feed and groom them, all about tack—that’s the accessories that go with them, like saddles and such—and I’ll even teach you to ride. Would you like that?”_

_“What about my mother?” I asked again._

_He shook his head. “Let’s just forget about that for right now. Do you want to learn about horses?”_

_I left the stalls and moved closer to the door so I could think and get away if I had to. He’d kept his promise and hadn’t come near me, but still…people broke promises all the time._ _“I don’t know,” I said softly, but he heard me._

_“I know you don’t trust me, but I promise you that what happened will never happen again. I won’t ever hurt you again. I promise. I don’t have any sons of my own to teach this to. I just want to pass on my love for horses to the next generation. Do you understand?”_

_I sort of did. Maybe. I looked back at the stalls and already my fingers were itching to touch them, to feel that coarse hair between my fingers. I couldn’t even imagine what it would be like to ride one. I wanted to know so badly._ _I nodded. “Okay.”_

_When he smiled at my answer, I finally started to relax a little. He took a few steps closer, very slowly, and I fought the urge to run. But he talked softly to me as he approached, promising me he wouldn’t hurt me, and I finally thought he was telling me the truth. He stopped in front of me and I had to look up to see his eyes. My mother always said you could tell if a person was evil by their eyes. He didn’t look evil to me, which didn’t make sense._

_“What I did was wrong. I admit that and I’m so sorry for it. Temptation is one of the worst evils in existence. You tempted me and I was just too weak to fight it. But that’s not your fault. That is my sin to bear. I’ve asked God’s forgiveness so many times, and now I’m asking it from you. Please, please forgive me for hurting you. It will never happen again. Please…”_

_I’d never had a grown up ask me for forgiveness before. I didn’t really know what to say. I was just a kid. I didn’t know whether my words meant anything to God or whether he even listened when people talked to him._

_“Have you told anyone?”_

_I shook my head. I was never going to tell._

_“So…?”_

_He waited for my answer. I thought back to the times I was made to sit in church and listen to stuff that made no sense to me before. The preacher was always talking about forgiveness and how all we had to do was ask for it— and mean it—and then God would give it to us. If God could forgive people for all the bad stuff they did, shouldn’t I forgive, too? I glanced over at the horses again, and I somehow knew that if I didn’t forgive him, he wouldn’t invite me back. I didn’t know how I knew that, but I just did. And I really wanted to learn how to ride._

_“I forgive you.”_

_He smiled. “You have no idea how happy it makes me to hear you say that.”_

He jerked awake, disoriented, his heart pounding, the sheet clutched in his fists. He was panicked and not quite sure where he was. He thrashed around in the bed, entangling himself in the covers, violently kicking at them and whimpering like a baby as he fought to liberate himself from that fucking dream. He finally made it out of the bed and lurched across the room to the place where his subconscious mind knew there was a light switch. A warm amber glow flooded the room and revealed that he was, in fact, in his own bedroom and not inside that loathsome barn. His mind was calmly telling him to chill out, that he was fine, but he didn’t trust his mind any further than he could throw the motherfucker. He frantically scoured the room to make absolutely sure that lying piece of shit from his dream wasn’t lurking in a corner somewhere.

When he finally realized he was alone, he slid his back down the wall and crunched himself up in a ball on the floor. He hugged his knees, hid his face and cried like a little kid, cried until the reservoir finally ran dry. Who was he kidding? That well of childhood tears inside of him was too deep to run dry. Every single time he thought he’d shed all the tears he had in him, the dreams would resurface, in all their various and assorted torturous forms, and prove him wrong.

What the fuck was wrong with him?? He was twenty-six years old—a grown man. He should be over this shit by now. These dreams shouldn’t keep coming back to haunt him. He wasn’t twelve anymore. He was old enough now to understand what had happened and analyze it from a more mature point of view. He knew all the mistakes he’d made and why. He’d accepted his part of the responsibility for it a long time ago. Why wouldn’t his subconscious mind just let it the fuck go??

He had two choices. He could sit in his floor for the rest of the night and think about all that shit again—go over it and over it in his mind, even though it was in the past and there was no way to change it. He could spend hours trying to figure out why his brain refused to let it go, why it continued to torture him with HD clarity. Even now, with the dream mostly faded, he could swear he detected the smell of horses and hay in the room even though he knew that was impossible. He could sit in the floor and think about his fucked up childhood for the next hundred years, but what would be the point? Thinking had never helped him in the past. Only one thing had ever helped, and that was his other choice.

He washed the salty residue of his tears from his face, then went into living room. He turned the lamp on by the couch, grabbed his charcoals and a sketchpad and began to draw.

* * *

 

Being called to the office of the most arrogant prick on the planet the morning after you’d spent half the night drawing and fighting off your demons was not the optimum way to celebrate Hump Day. Daniel was exhausted, grouchy and in no mood to play “Who’s the Bigger Dick?” with Michael Golland. He couldn’t even make a guess as to the reason he was being summoned. They hadn’t spoken to each other in days. Daniel had only seen him once in passing as Michael had left the building, and even then he’d only managed to see his back. Trudy had buzzed him as soon as he’d arrived at work and had told him to be in Michael’s office by noon and not to be late. She’d given no further explanation and no amount of charm could get it out of her. He knew he hadn’t done anything to warrant being called on the carpet, so he was at a loss to explain it.

“He’s expecting you. Go on in.”

He managed a smile for Trudy, then pushed open the door to Michael’s office without announcing himself. His mouth dropped open at what he saw. There was a table draped with a tablecloth sitting in the previously empty space between Michael’s desk and the four-chair grouping. Fine china? Wine glasses? What the fuck was this??

“I thought you might like to have lunch with me.” Michael was standing by the table, dressed impeccably (as usual) in a form-fitting dark suit, white shirt and deep red tie, his expression and demeanor pleasant, which was a shock in and of itself. “I hope you like lobster. It was flown in fresh from Maine and prepared in a cold salad with fresh greens and avocados. I have herbed cream dressing and sourdough bread to go with it. And wine, of course.”

Okay. Michael had either decided to play nice finally, or else the lobster was poisoned and he’d be in intensive care at the hospital within the hour. _Life is full of risks._ Daniel mentally shrugged and joined him at the table. He got another shock when he was able to see Michael’s face up close, but he held his tongue and sat down, watching as he spooned the salad onto their plates and poured the wine.

“So, are you trying to one-up me? I do chicken salad and you do lobster salad?” he asked, taking a chunk of sourdough from the marble serving board to his left.

“Of course not,” Michael answered as he sat down and grabbed his own chunk of sourdough. “Your chicken salad was exceptional and my lobster salad is the seafood equivalent.”

“ _My_ lobster salad? As in, you prepared this yourself?”

Michael explained while they ate that while the other boys he knew had been smoking weed and chasing girls, he’d been in the kitchen learning how to cook. His mother finally got tired of him sneaking bites behind her back and one day set her foot down and made him help her. Next thing he knew, she was teaching him to prepare entire gourmet meals all by himself.

“My father highly disapproved, of course. He said cooking was a woman’s job and she was making a pansy out of me. I was just at the right age to think that if my father disapproved of it, then it was totally cool. So, I decided I was going to be the best fifteen-year-old chef in Los Angeles.”

His lobster salad was damned good, and Daniel told him so. He graciously accepted the compliment without any of his signature snobbery. Daniel confessed to knowing how to cook as well. Sons stealing food behind their mothers' backs must be a common occurrence because that was how he'd ended up learning how to cook, too.

In between bites of the best seafood salad he'd ever eaten, he tried to figure out what the hell was going on. First, Michael dodged nearly all personal questions, and now he was telling him stories about him and his mother. And just how long did he expect Daniel not to mention the pink elephant in the room?? He'd obviously been punched in the eye, but the bruising was fading. A smaller, even fainter bruise lay on the upper crest of his left cheekbone.

"Who hit you?" Daniel asked.

Michael didn't answer immediately, but continued to eat as if he hadn't even heard the question. Daniel probably should have kept his mouth shut, but tact wasn't exactly his forte.

"It doesn't matter who it was," he answered finally. "All that matters is I deserved it."

"What did you do?"

"Something I knew I wasn't supposed to do, but I did it anyway just to piss someone off." He smirked. "Trust me, it was worth the black eye. Would you like dessert? I have Tiramisu and Blue Mountain coffee."

Daniel had no idea what Tiramisu was, but after one bite he fell in love with the coffee-flavored confection. The Blue Mountain was to die for, easily the most flavorful java that had ever passed his lips. Was Michael trying to impress him with exotic food and drink, or did he eat like this every day?? He wondered when was the last time Michael had ordered out for pizza. Probably never.

"You look bad, Daniel. Are you all right?"

Okay. Things were starting to get that Twilight Zone feel now. Since when did A-Hole Golland care about how he looked or felt? Why the big turnaround from arrogant and hostile to friendly and concerned?  "I was up all night drawing. Couldn't sleep."

Michael nodded. "I have those nights when my mind refuses to shut down, except I read. Sometimes I'll read an entire book in one night, or if the night is warm, I'll swim laps in the pool."

Daniel was feeling a little off-balance. Normal, pleasant conversation was something he'd never expected from Michael. He'd come into his office prepared for arrogance and glib remarks about his sexuality, and now they were chatting over lunch like two old friends. Like tact, the ability to trust wasn't one of Daniel's strengths either, thanks to his fucked up childhood. He was suspicious.

"There's a reason I asked you to lunch today," Michael said, relaxing back in his chair. "I think two grown men playing the insult game is rather childish, don't you?"

He nodded in agreement and wondered when Michael had acquired mind-reading abilities. Just as he'd suspected, there was an ulterior motive for inviting him to lunch. _Here it comes..._

"I want everything out on the table between us, so there's no misunderstandings later on," Michael continued. His blue gaze lacked it's usual coldness, but it was very focused and intent. "I'm not picking a fight with you. Rather, I think having an open dialogue between two people is much more productive."

"I couldn't agree more," Daniel acknowledged. "Hit me with it."

"You're Joystyk. You're a criminal. You vandalize personal property and you feel no remorse for it. I don't begin to understand your motives, but in the end that's not important to me. I realize I took the wrong approach when I first investigated this. I'm rectifying that mistake. I have a new strategy now; I _will_ find proof to back up my suspicions. And when I do, I'm going to fire you. It won't matter how talented you are, how valuable an asset you are to this company, who your father is, nor will I consider your relationships with others in this building. I _will_ fire you, regardless of all of that. Do you understand?"

Daniel was shocked by his polite honesty and also by the fact that the delivery lacked his usual arrogance and snobbery. A straight forward statement from this guy was nothing short of refreshing. His respect for Michael shot through the roof.

"I understand," Daniel answered. "And I'll be equally honest with you. I'm gay, I'm out, and I'm proud. And I'm not my father's spy. He was not happy when he found out I'd applied for a job here. He tried to talk me out of it, but he's an attorney, not an artist. He doesn't understand what having GEM on my resume can do for my career. So, even though I respect his opinion, he doesn't control my life. I made the decision to come here, not him. But make no mistake, if I see even the tiniest instance of discrimination anywhere in this building, I will report you and not think twice about it. Do you understand?"

The smallest of smiles tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Duly noted and understood."

"And another thing," Daniel continued. "Me sneaking in here last time with lunch wasn't Trudy's fault. You had no right to threaten her job. Did you know she has a little boy with cerebral palsy and that her dickhead husband walked out on her?"

"I knew about her son, but I had no idea about her husband. Not that it matters. She knows what her job is and she failed to do it. I had every right to chastise her for that."

"You should have came to _me_ and told _me_ to stay out of your office. That would have been the open and honest thing to do. So, from now on, if you have a beef with me, take it to my face. Deal?"

Daniel leaned forward and extended his hand across the table, carefully monitoring Michael's expression for a reaction. His pleasant demeanor wavered for a moment, just like it had the night of the Christmas party. Was he a germaphobe or something? It was obvious he didn't want to touch him, but he clasped Daniel's hand anyway. The skin-to-skin contact sent an electrical charge of sexual attraction straight from Daniel's palm directly to his cock. Michael broke the contact far too quickly to suit him. It was a damned shame the man liked women. Daniel could have a hell of a lot of fun running his fingers all over that sleek body. He wanted to reach over and smooth down his cowlick, which was being unruly again, and plant a tender kiss on his bruised cheek, plus beat the fuck out of whoever had dared hit him. _Shit._ Life was just so fucking unfair sometimes.

"Deal. And while we're being honest, I have to say that I find your habit of staring a hole in my face to be very annoying. I often wonder if I've got spinach between my teeth or snot hanging out of my nose."

Daniel chuckled and took another sip of the amazing coffee before answering. "I can't help it. Your face is an artist's wet dream. You have classic features, and your bone structure is unbelievably beautiful."

Michael frowned. "My chin is too long and my nose is weird. Plus I have this idiotic cowlick that refuses to bend to my will. I'd hardly call that classic."

He shook his head and grinned at Michael's naivete. The man's face was stunning, and not just from an artist's perspective. He could kiss and suck on that mouth for hours and not get bored. By the time he got through running his fingers though his thick hair, it would _all_ be sticking out, not just his cowlick.

"You're wrong. The length of your chin is in proportion to the rest of your face, and your nose is not weird. It makes your features more interesting and exotic. And the cowlick is just plain cute."

Michael's frown deepened, and he added a glare for good measure. Daniel wondered if it was the cute cowlick remark that had upset him or if he just hated being told he was wrong.

"By the way, I noticed that down in the main lobby every officer of this company but you has an oil painting hanging on the wall. You need one, and you should commission me to paint it. I'll give you a good deal: half of what I normally charge."

Michael shook his head at his suggestion. "I'm not an officer of this company. My portrait will never hang in the main lobby."

"But you're head of personnel and you're the president's son."

"I'm a regular employee, just like you. If I mess up, I'll be fired, same as everyone else. There is no such thing as nepotism at GEM."

Jesus. What was the point of being filthy rich and owning a Fortune 500 company if you couldn't engage in a little healthy nepotism now and then? Your family was supposed to have the cushy positions and job security for the rest of eternity.

"Damn. Your father's hardcore."

"You have no idea."

"So, forget about the main lobby. Hang it on that wall behind your desk. Front and center. You've gotta make a statement, Michael: I'm an important part of this company, fuck you very much, and right here is my bad ass motherfucking portrait. In. Your. Face."

Michael smiled, then the smile morphed into a grin and finally a full-fledged laugh, white teeth and all. God, he was even more stunning when he laughed, if that was even possible. "I like the way you think, Daniel Hart. Set it up. And I'll pay your regular fee."

 _Oh hell yeah!_  He was going to have Michael Golland's hot, sexy body all to himself for as long as it took to get the portrait finished. And he was going to drag that project out for as long as humanly possible.

Who said life wasn't fair?


	10. The Sitting

_“You’ll never learn this in a school...”_

_Hands were all over him. Sharp nails scraped lightly across his skin. The nausea…_

_The sounds, they made him sick. Skin slapping against skin with a moist, squelching noise. Eyes squeezed shut, he tried to block it out, but a disgusted moan escaped his throat and he shivered with revulsion._

_“Oooh, you like that, baby boy? You want it harder, huh?”_

 

The sunrise was beautiful but he couldn’t enjoy it. The nightmare—the sounds, the smells, the dirtiness of it—still lingered hours later. The sun kissed the glass panes but its warm caresses were too weak to do Michael any good. He felt cold, raw and exposed, his soul thrown wide open, his broken pieces spilling out all over the floor. His skin still tingled from the scalding hot shower he’d taken to try and wash the nightmare away, but Deidra’s talons were embedded in him too deep. There wasn’t enough soap and water in the universe to get rid of her.

 _Ridiculous_. He snarled at his reflection in the window, despising his own weakness. He had a long, busy day ahead of him. He needed to pull himself together. His father was due to arrive in a few minutes for an early meeting and he needed to be on his toes.

He turned away from the windows and took a deep, cleansing breath, shoving all thoughts of the dream to the back of his mind. Instead, he indulged in a few stolen minutes of delicious fantasy: an anonymous woman tied face down to the floor of his play room, her legs spread wide, red streaks from his riding crop mottling her skin. He imagined shoving himself into her ass, her muffled pleas for him to stop only making him pound her harder. Then the image morphed into thick, muscular thighs with a light coating of dark hair, spread painfully wide; strong arms straining against the rope; wrists ringed red from the friction; hand prints like crimson flames sprinkled over a tight ass.

“Just what in hell are you doing?” his father demanded as he entered Michael’s office, shutting the doors behind him harder than necessary.

Michael wiped his expression clean, none of his annoyance at his fantasy being so rudely interrupted showing on his face. No ‘Good morning, son’ or inquiries about his health ever precluded conversations with his father. He always got right down to business, and where his youngest fuck-up was concerned, that business was nearly always unpleasant.

“What do you mean?” Michael sank down into the chair behind his desk and forced himself to relax.

“You’ve had lunch with Daniel Hart—here in this office—for the past three days. _That’s_ what I mean.”

Not that he’d been trying to hide it, but the idea that his father had been spying on him angered him. “Should I have my office swept for bugs?”

He smiled smugly. “I don’t need bugs. I have loyal employees who keep me informed. Now, answer my question. What the hell are you doing? You were supposed to be finding a reason to fire him, not getting chummy with him.”

In the tense silence that followed, and under the scrutiny of his father’s cold stare, he decided it was time to play his ace. “I have something on Daniel, something big enough that I can fire him without us having to worry about getting sued.”

His father’s eyes narrowed in sudden interest. “What do you have?”

“I’d rather not say until I have definitive proof. I’m working on it.”

“By serving him lunch every day??”

He felt like telling his father to go fuck himself and get his own damned proof if he didn’t like how it was being handled. He settled for sarcasm instead. “Unfortunately, our Iron Maiden is in the shop getting the spikes sharpened, so we’ll have to settle for using lies and manipulation to get the information we need.”

His father slammed his palms down on Michael’s desk, his eyes blazing. “I’m glad you think this is funny, because I don’t! I have the government's nose in my business enough as it is without having one of their damned spies on my payroll! I want him gone!”

In truth, Michael thought this entire situation was becoming more entertaining by the day. It was actually a relief for him that the firings had come to a stop since Daniel had arrived. He could relax for awhile and not have to worry about covering his ass with every single personnel decision he made. A huge plus was that his father’s hands were metaphorically tied for the first time in Michael’s memory. He was enjoying watching the bastard squirm for a change.

“Because of the precarious situation we’re in, I have to be subtle, Father,” he said. “I’m deliberately cultivating his friendship so he’ll feel comfortable with me. I’m developing a trust between us, because when someone trusts you, they tell you things. They drop little tidbits of information into conversation without even realizing what they’re doing. And while he’s busy believing I’m his new best friend, I’ll be busy gathering evidence behind his back. This kind of manipulation takes time, but the results will be worth it. I’ll have an ironclad case against him, and there won’t be any loopholes for him to wiggle through.”

His father righted himself, slid his hands into his pockets, and stared at him, his expression unreadable. “Sounds reasonable, but…let me add a little extra incentive for you. I know how much you hate Personnel.” He smiled arrogantly. “I purposely left you here knowing how much you hate it. I wanted to see how you handled it.”

Michael’s temper flared to life. He had to grit his teeth to keep from saying something that would end up hurting him worse than it would his father. Of course he loathed Personnel, because he hated people in general. He hated dealing with their shit on a daily basis, their myriad of problems and excuses, their ridiculous family drama, their continuous whining over every aspect of their menial jobs. He’d despised it from the first day and he hadn’t warmed up to it at all in the seven years he’d been in the position. Several times he’d asked his father about a promotion, or at the very least, a horizontal move within the company to another department, but his requests had been emphatically denied each time.

“Here’s the deal. If you get Daniel Hart off my payroll, I’ll give you whatever department you want. Your choice and a raise to go with it.”

The raise didn’t mean shit to him, but the opportunity to get out of Personnel was another matter altogether. That was definitely a game changer. He stood and offered his father his hand. “You’ve got a deal.”

* * *

 

Sitting on a wooden box with no back support, trussed up in a suit when he'd rather be in jeans and t-shirt, was not the way Michael wanted to spend his evening. He had better things to do—more _relaxing_ things—than getting a numb ass while watching Daniel scrabble around on the floor with wood strips, some kind of weird pliers he'd never seen before, and some cloth.  "What are you doing?" he asked, not bothering to hide his irritation.

Daniel answered, his focus never leaving the floor. "Stretching the canvas."

 _So that's how one stretches a canvas_. He'd never actually seen it done before and found the process interesting despite his annoyance. But Daniel didn't have to know that. "I have better things to do than watch you crawl around all over the floor for hours. You should have had this done before our appointment."

Daniel looked up from his work. "I'm charging you a small fortune for this, so I figured you'd want to see what you're paying for. Painting a portrait is a long process. You don't just sit down and start slopping paint all all over the place. You have to stretch the canvas first, get it really tight, which only takes about 30 minutes, then you have to prime it and sand it. It'll be ready to use on our next appointment."

"So you're not even going to start painting tonight??"

"Nope," he answered.

Then why in hell had he been instructed to wear this damned suit if the annoying bastard wasn't even going to start the actual painting?? He wasn't even going to bother asking. Despite his interest in what Daniel was doing, he decided to ignore him for awhile.  They were in a back studio in some art gallery he had never heard of. Supposedly a friend of a friend had volunteered the room for the portrait, since Daniel had no studio of his own. The room held only the essentials in furniture: an artist's table and chair, varied sizes of boxes like the one he was currently sitting on, a stool, a metal easel, and different types of lights.

"So, where did you go to college?" Daniel asked.

He let the question hang in the air unanswered while he watched Daniel make the final adjustments to the canvas.

"Finished!" he announced, bringing the canvas over to Michael for inspection. He flicked it with his fingers and grinned. "Nice and tight. Now, while I prime it, you can answer my question."

Michael bristled. He didn't like being ordered around. First the demand that he wear the damned suit, and now he was going to be subjected to interrogation as well?? And just how long was this priming going to take??  "I didn't go to college," he answered brusquely.

Daniel looked at him over his shoulder, obviously surprised. "Really?"

"I guess that makes you feel superior to me now."

Daniel frowned. "No, not at all. Lots of successful people didn't go college. I'm just surprised. Wealthy families tend to send their kids to Ivy League schools. I just assumed."

"My older brother, Paul, attended Yale, and my sister, Cassandra, went to Dartmouth. I was... _chosen_...to learn the family business."

While he watched Daniel prime the canvas with something called Gesso, he gave him the abbreviated version of his induction into the world of work. At the tender age of fifteen, his father plopped him down in the middle of the mail room and told him to learn everything about it and not to 'fuck it up'. He was going to be paid the minimum wage like all unskilled workers, except he didn't have the option to quit if he didn't like it. Michael spent a good ten minutes pouting over the loss of his leisurely summer, but in the end he was determined he wasn't going to fuck it up. He was going to make his father proud of him. He was going to learn everything about mail. Before a month went by, he knew the name of every single employee at GEM, what department they worked in, and what kind of mail they received. He also noticed that the way paper moved throughout the building was extremely inefficient, so he came up with a better way, presented his idea to his father, and within six months, the changes were implemented.

Daniel raised his eyebrows and looked like he was impressed, but he continued to spread the primer over the canvas without comment.

Then, in his sixteenth summer, he was promoted to shipping and receiving, with a twenty-five cent raise in pay. He was told to learn it and not to 'fuck it up'. It only took him two weeks to match shipments with the appropriate department. He learned all about the movement of goods throughout the building and the process of routing packing slips and invoices to the appropriate department heads. Shipping and receiving was ran very efficiently, but after a few months he began to suspect some of the purchases coming into the building might not be legit. He turned the information over to his father, who then investigated, and within weeks of his report, two people were fired for spending budget monies on things they shouldn't have, and one for not catching the fraud in the first place.

"I'll bet that earned you a few friends," Daniel observed, chuckling.

"I made enemies the first minute I stepped foot in the building—" he responded, shrugging. "—for the sole reason that I was the son of the president of the company. It wouldn't have mattered what I did or didn't do. Some hated me automatically, so I decided not to worry about what anyone thought. I was just trying to do the best job I could."

When he was seventeen, he was promoted to Accounting and given another twenty-five cent raise.

"Accounting?? Were you good at math?"

"Not particularly," Michael answered. "But then again, I'd never tried to be good at it."

Daniel stopped priming and turned his full attention to Michael's story. "So, what did you fix in accounting?"

He hesitated, considering how best to answer. "I didn't fix anything, but I discovered that numbers are very...slippery."  He left it at that. Daniel studied him with narrowed eyes for a few moments, then returned to his priming.

After his less than stellar performance in Accounting, his father promoted him, on his eighteenth birthday, to head of Personnel, and with a substantial raise to go along with it. Once again, he was told to learn everything about it and not to 'fuck it up'.

"And of course, I fucked it up. Apparently I wasn't 'good with people'," he said with a straight face.

Daniel laid down his paintbrush and snickered. "Really?? I never noticed that."  Then Daniel smiled. It was an understanding smile that said he knew Michael was an arrogant, unfriendly asshole, but he liked him anyway. Michael didn't know what he'd done to deserve that kind of understanding from someone he'd only known for a short time, but he welcomed it.

"The primer has to dry before I can sand it and give it a second coat, so..."  He got up from the floor and dug around in the huge black bag he'd brought with him. Out came a very professional-looking camera.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm going to take some pictures of you," he answered. "I'm going to do an oil and a digital portrait. I need photos to load into the software."

Daniel photographed him from every possible angle and some of the shots were uncomfortably close, especially the ones of his face. Plus, he was forced to listen to Daniel's ridiculous commentary while he did it: how the shadows loved his bone structure; how crystal clear his blue eyes were up close; how his fingers were long and elegant like a musician's; how sleek he looked in a suit; how cute his cowlick was.

"Would you just shut up and take the pictures," he snapped after the stupid cowlick comment.

Daniel chuckled softly. "You know, if you ever decide to get out of the family business, you could be a model," he said as he snapped away. "You're exactly the type these fashion houses like: tall and slender with a face that loves the camera. You look good in clothes. Yep, I can definitely see you on a runway in Milan." He grinned and backed away. "All done."

Michael glared at him. "You don't listen very well, do you? I don't want your career advice, nor do I need a detailed critique of my body."

Daniel turned his back to him and started putting away his camera. "Sorry. I'm not good at taking orders. Never have been."

The arrogant defiance he heard in Daniel's voice was like a siren song, making him wish he was head of the Graphic Arts department instead of Personnel. Then Daniel would be forced to follow his every order without any objections, or he'd find his ass out on the sidewalk. If only he could manage to maneuver himself into that position without having to fire Daniel to get it, his life would be perfect. Unrealistic, and unlikely to happen, but it was a nice fantasy.

He pulled out his cell to check the time. "I have to go. Claire is waiting for me at home. She's probably upset with me because I'm so late." He emphasized the last part with a glare in Daniel's direction.

He watched, fascinated, as Daniel's expression went blank, his voice carefully impassive. "Just buy her something. That'll make up for it."

He smiled inside, amused at the unspoken jealousy he sensed in Daniel, despite his guarded expression. "That's a great idea. I think Claire would love a new pair of shoes."

"I'm sure she would," he said, his voice flat. "So, I guess I'll add the second coat of primer tomorrow." Daniel slung the black bag over his shoulder and studiously avoiding Michael's eyes. "Are we doing lunch tomorrow?"

Their lunches had become the highlight of Michael's workday. He enjoyed his hour of sparring with Daniel, artfully dodging his probing personal questions, gracefully sidestepping his short fuse when he was teased, and gently probing for clues among the chatter to implicate him in the vandalism of their building. He'd picked up one tiny clue yesterday, and he doubted Daniel even realized it.

"Of course, and it's your turn to provide the food."

When they parted company on the sidewalk outside the gallery, Michael watched him walk away. Daniel was a very attractive man if you could factor out his fondness for sucking dicks, as well as the off-the-rack khakis, rock band t-shirt, and red Converse this time, instead of black. As he had already learned, Daniel was a strong-willed and a very stubborn individual, but that muscular frame underneath the cheap clothes spoke of a physical strength that Michael had yet to discover.

What would it be like to control that kind of strength?

 


	11. A Bit of Detective Work

Michael inspected the half-naked man staring back at him in the bathroom mirror. He ignored the cowlick—nothing could fix that particular flaw—and focused on his face. Turning his head slowly right and then left, he studied the way the light played across the planes of his cheekbones, jaw, nose, and forehead. He’d never noticed, or cared, about such things before, but Daniel’s comments from their last sitting had roused his curiosity. But where Daniel apparently saw beauty in his features, he only saw sharp bones protruding beneath skin, the stubble of an unshaved jaw, a weirdly shaped nose that came close to resembling a penis when viewed at the right angle, and a thin sheen of sweat forming on his too-large forehead.

He hit the dimmer switch on the wall beside him, thinking that lowering the glare of the vanity lights would bring out those wondrous shadows Daniel has gushed about while photographing him. Once again, he slowly turned his head, dipping it low, then gradually raising it higher, watching how the light played across his features. He shook his head in disgust. The shadows were definitely more pronounced in the low light, but they only made him look ominous and angry, not attractive. Daniel was an idiot, and so were all the whores who constantly chased after him. It wasn’t the ‘beautiful’ shadows on his face that drew them to him, nor did his many imperfections drive them away. His money was the attraction. The physical and emotional flaws of a wealthy man were easy to ignore when there were bank accounts and investment portfolios involved, as evidenced by the simpering, brainless women who hung off his father’s arms like bats attached to the rafters of an old barn.

He cursed himself for wasting so much time gazing at his reflection. He was going to miss watching the sunrise from his office windows if he didn’t get his ass in gear and get ready. He reached for the razor, curling his long fingers around the marble handle like he did every weekday morning, but then hesitated before actually picking it up. _You have long fingers, like musicians’ fingers,_ Daniel had said yesterday. He held out his hands, spreading his fingers wide apart and studying them. For the first time, he pondered what those fingers might have accomplished had he’d been allowed to continue his music lessons. His mother had enrolled him in piano and violin at the tender age of seven. He’d only managed to learn a few songs before his father had yanked him out, proclaiming such nonsense a waste of Michael’s time. More appropriately, he’d been forced to join the country club lacrosse team alongside a bunch of raucous boys who were way more athletic than him, considering he’d had no earthly idea how to even play the game. A mid-season badly sprained ankle had taken care of that little technicality. After a severe (and private) tongue lashing from his father about how he couldn’t even manage to hit a little rubber ball without fucking it up, his career in team sports had came to an abrupt, but welcomed, end.

He sighed, wondering why he was so morose this morning when he had such an easy day ahead of him. He got down to the tiresome business of scraping the stubble from his face while mentally reviewing his schedule for the day: a meaningless morning meeting with the suits upstairs, two mid-morning interviews for one vacant low-level position no one in their right mind should want, what would most likely be an interesting and entertaining lunch with Daniel, then the rest of the afternoon free until his equally interesting and entertaining evening portrait appointment.

“You’re running late.”

He startled, nicking his chin and seething inwardly at his father’s unannounced interruption. He was leaning against the bathroom door jamb eying Michael with deep disapproval.

“Is my doorbell broken again?” Michael asked, careful to keep the sneering to a minimum, while he blotted the bloody wound on his chin with a tissue.

His father faked a laugh. “Funny.”

It was useless for him to lock his doors. His father had keys to all of the entrances of his cottage. In a rare display of defiance, he had once changed all of the locks, but had come home that evening to find them replaced with new locks. And his father, of course, had kept a spare set of keys. He never rang the doorbell, knocked, or called beforehand to announce his arrival. He'd objected many times to the intrusions upon his privacy, but it had fallen on deaf ears. When Paul Golland owned you, you had no rights, privacy, or a life that you could call your own.

“I needed to catch you before you left for work. I’m leaving for Boston this morning. An unexpected business opportunity arose last night that I can’t pass up. I’ll be back Sunday afternoon.”

He finished shaving while halfway listening to a long list of ridiculous instructions from his father like he was a thirteen-year-old delinquent being left alone at the house for the first time. He was to stay on the grounds at night, no sleeping in that ‘perverted penthouse’ in the city. Monitor the help and make sure their work was completed before they left for the day. No ‘undesirables’ on the property and no wild parties. He was also warned not to make any major decisions at work until his father returned and could approve (or deny) them. He felt like asking if he should text him in Boston to ask permission before wiping his own ass.

He rinsed his face and blotted it with aftershave, carefully avoiding the gash in his chin. He fought the overwhelming urge to slap the living fuck out of his dear old dad. He wasn’t a kid and he resented being treated like one. He was twenty-six years old and he’d never had a ‘wild party’ in his entire life, being friendless and living on the fringes of his social circle all his teenage years. The only ‘undesirable’ who had managed to make it onto the grounds, and into his life, had been Dario. He fervently wished he actually knew some ‘undesirables’ personally so he could invite them over and let them trash the place all to hell before Sunday.

"I'm really wondering if you can keep your head out of Claire's ass long enough to even notice what's going on around here. Your obsession with her is unnatural."

He ignored the comment and chose to stuff a loaded toothbrush into his mouth, which effectively prevented him from saying something he'd regret later. Anything that made him happy was considered 'unnatural' by his father, but apparently fucking every woman in Los Angeles, some of whom were your friends' wives, and a select few who were their "almost legal" teenage daughters, was perfectly natural. He spit into the sink and rinsed his toothbrush. "You can trust me to take care of things while you're gone."

He got a 'We'll see about that' look from his father, but thankfully, no scathing rebuttal. He wished he was rebellious enough to throw the largest and most lavish house party in the history of LA this weekend, but he lacked the balls to seriously cross Daddy Dearest, and they both knew it.

“I noticed your schedule is free this afternoon. Why is that?” 

He felt the chill of corporate disapproval in his father’s icy stare. Slackers were not tolerated at GEM, and it was even worse for him. The son of the president of the company was expected to go above and beyond the call of duty, to work inhumanly long hours, take work home if needed, and never complain about the load. Paying homage to the bottom line was more important to his father than altar time was to God.

“I’m spending the afternoon downtown following a lead on the Daniel Hart thing,” he said, scooting past his father and into the bedroom to get dressed.

His father grunted his approval. “Okay, but I expect some results in exchange for the lost productivity." He looked like he was going to leave—finally—but his father never left a conversation on a positive note. This one wasn't any different. "Oh, and one more thing. Deidra is upset with you. She said you were rude to her at the charity thing. That is not acceptable, Michael. She’s a dear friend of this family and I expect you to fix things with her by the time I get back. Call her and smooth it over.”

 _A dear friend of this family???_   He gritted his teeth and yanked up his zipper hard enough to break it if his slacks had been off-the-rack instead of tailor made. Fuck Deidra and her hurt feelings. Hell would freeze over before he’d ever call that fucking cunt.

“I’ll take care of it,” he said brusquely as he grabbed his jacket and briefcase and left the room without saying goodbye or wishing his father a safe trip.

* * *

 

The Glazed Canvas was a small, but surprisingly upscale and elegant, art gallery. He'd never heard of it, let alone visited it. He wouldn’t have even known of its existence if Daniel hadn’t mentioned it in their lunch conversation the other day. On those occasions when he felt the need to add a new piece of artwork to his collection, he always used a private broker. He loathed the fakery surrounding gallery openings, the pretentious oohing and aahing over artwork that was pure shit, the fawning over weed-smoking Bohemians as if they were the next Salvador Dali. You drank some wine, ate a few hors d’ oeuvres, got papped for the next issue of _Blackbook_ and you were an instant art connoisseur.

Within moments of the door shutting behind him, a nicely-dressed twenty-something guy approached him, asking if there was anything in particular he was looking for.

“Do you have any of Daniel Hart’s work? He’s a local artist.”

The guy didn’t know offhand and left to find the answer on the gallery’s computer. He wandered aimlessly through the displays, not really paying attention to the canvases for sale. He wasn’t in the market for anything new, that is, unless it was something of Daniel’s.

“I’m sorry,” the employee said upon his return. “We had a few pieces of Mr. Hart’s, but they’ve already been sold. Could we interest you in something else?"

“Do you have anything by Joystyk?”

The guy looked shocked at first, but recovered his professionalism fairly quickly. “We don’t display your normal street art here. We don’t have a big enough space, and as far as Joystyk goes—or any other activist artists—their subject matter is...” He paused, probably searching for a polite way to say that Joystyk’s art was nothing but highly offensive homosexual pornography of the worst kind. “…it’s a little too ‘in your face’ for most of our clientele. You need to go over to The Funky Easel for that sort of thing.”

“Do you, by chance, know the identity of Joystyk?” 

The guy laughed softly, shaking his head. “Nobody knows who that guy is.” Michael believed him. “We do have a few smaller pieces that are representative of what you would call 'normal' street art. They're not sprayed. They're done in pastels, oil, pen and ink, that sort of thing. Would you like to see them?”

He nodded his interest and followed him to a remote corner of the room where a small grouping of five elegantly framed pieces was arranged artfully on the wall. He studied the tags one-by-one, taking his time, searching for anything unusual or familiar. Even though they weren’t aerosols, the designs were in the same style as all the other crap graffiti sprayed all over this city. His patience was finally rewarded as he inspected the last two pieces. There was something there, something that caught his eye. He wasn’t sure what it was, but his subconscious mind had latched onto it immediately. Something was familiar about these two designs. There was a link to Joystyk in there somewhere. He felt in his bones.

“Who did these?” he asked, pointing to the last two.

“We just put these out this week. All five are by the same artist: Cameron Scott. He’s a local, too.” 

 _Cameron Scott?!_  He smiled, his mind working furiously to put the pieces of this puzzle together. Was he chasing the wrong man?  “How much for all five?” 

The guy left to get the total price while he stared fixedly at the two incriminating pieces.

“Fifteen seventy-five," the salesman said upon his return.

“You have a sale,” he said, pleased he was finally making some progress in discovering Joystyk’s identity.  He declined the offer to have them delivered to his house, opting instead to ‘cash and carry’. He couldn’t wait to get them home so he could go over every square centimeter with a fine toothed comb.

* * *

 

“What are you doing to waste my valuable time tonight?” he asked, smirking. He’d liked to have been home going over Scott’s canvases with a magnifying glass, but he also enjoyed seeing that annoyed frown on Daniel’s face whenever he complained about something.

“I’m blocking,” Daniel answered without any further explanation.

“Blocking? What does that mean?”

“It means I’m putting in the value tones,” he answered without meeting Michael’s gaze. He focused on the canvas while he elaborated. “First I sketch out a rough outline of your form with charcoals. Then, I divide your face and body into planes, painting in the shadows and highlights first. The finer details come later.”

He nodded his understanding, but Daniel didn’t acknowledge it. They sat in silence for quite awhile, the scratching of his brush on the canvas the only audible sound in the room. Daniel was being very unsociable tonight, and he couldn’t figure out why. Nothing untoward had taken place during lunch to upset him. They’d had a very pleasant conversation about art therapy and no disagreements over anything. But tonight, every time he tried to start a conversation Daniel shot it down with abrupt one-word answers and more silence. The explanation about blocking was the most words he'd spoken all evening.

“Have I said or done something to upset you?” 

Daniel stopped painting and looked at him with surprise. “What??”

He was annoyed he had to repeat the question. Daniel wasn’t even paying any attention to him. It was as if he wasn’t even in the room. "Did I do something to upset you?" he asked again. "You're being an ass tonight."

Daniel laid down his brush. “Sorry,” he said, chuckling. “I get a little… _intense_ …when I’m painting. I sort of zone out, if you know what I mean. It’s not you, it’s totally me. It’s just how I work.”

“Oh.” Was that all? He was surprised to feel a sense of relief that Daniel wasn’t upset with him, which was unusual for him. He’d never cared what anyone thought of him before, let alone whether they were upset over something he’d said or done. It was a strange feeling, but also a little unnerving. It gave Daniel a bit of power over him that he wasn’t sure he liked.

The rest of the sitting was conducted in silence, which gave him some much needed time to think and consider the man sitting before him. He watched, fascinated, as Daniel painted with a focused intensity, his eyes darting back and forth from his face to the canvas, his brush moving with practiced speed and skill. Despite his fervent wish to despise Daniel, he found him intriguing and interesting. He was extremely annoying, arrogant, rude, strong-willed and stubborn. But he was also amusing at times and a very good cook. Michael was in awe of his talent; the art was as vibrant and complex as the man. Daniel also had an independent streak in him that Michael both admired and jealously envied. But, there was so much more about him that he yearned to know; he was especially curious about his family and childhood. All of his attempts to discover any personal details of Daniel's early life had been met with practiced resistance and some very adept side-stepping. There was something in Daniel's past he didn't want to talk about. As someone who'd been hiding secrets all his life, he recognized the signs.

Inevitably, his mind eventually wandered to his earlier conversation with his father. His irritation at being treated like an irresponsible teenager had worn off on the drive to work. By the time lunch had rolled around, he'd been in a state of near euphoria. Even Trudy had noticed his change in mood, asking if he had won the lottery or something. Four whole days without the bastard breathing down his neck. Four long, wonderful days of complete freedom to do anything he wanted. He may not have the guts to throw a wild house party, or invite the local riff-raff over for some booze, weed and pizza, but he could do the next best thing.

“What are you doing this Saturday?” he asked, breaking the silence for the first time in over an hour.

Daniel hesitated and actually looked at him this time. “What?”

He sighed in irritation at having to, once again, repeat his question. “I said…what are you doing this Saturday?”

Daniel frowned, like he didn’t understand the question. “Uh…I’m doing what I do every Saturday: sleeping in, laundry and painting. Why?”

He swallowed down a sudden surge of nervousness. What if he said no? “I wondered if you’d like to come over to my house…and…hang out for the day.”

Daniel’s eyes widened, his mouth actually dropped open. “Hang out??”

He nodded. “My father is out of town until Sunday.” As soon as the words left his mouth he wanted to shoot himself in the head. He sounded exactly like a silly teenager rejoicing at being left home alone.

Daniel's surprise eventually morphed into a pleased smile. He sat his brush down and started wiping off his hands. “I’d love that, Michael.”

They discussed times while Daniel put away his supplies. He suggested 8 AM. Daniel rolled his eyes, protesting that the sun didn’t even get out of bed that early on a Saturday, while he tried to convince him that the early morning hours were the best ones of the day. They argued back and forth until they finally reached a compromise: Daniel would attempt to be in his driveway by 10 AM, 10:30 at the very latest.

“What does a person wear when hanging out with a snobby millionaire on a lazy Saturday afternoon?” Daniel asked, grinning. “Because I’m fresh out of silk smoking jackets and alligator skin penny loafers.”

Michael shot him an annoyed glare. “Just wear jeans and sneakers.”

Daniel's dark eyebrows nearly overshot his hairline. “You mean you actually own a pair of jeans??”

He sighed, rolled his eyes and shot up from the hard crate, his ass tingling as the numbness wore off. “I own an entire closet full of jeans. Two hundred dollars a pop.”

“Well, I cannot wait to see what those two hundred dollar jeans look like,” Daniel said sarcastically as he turned off the lights in the gallery and locked the door behind them.

And he couldn’t wait for Daniel to finally meet Claire.

 


	12. The Cottage

Daniel heard the front door open and slam shut and within seconds a highly pissed Cameron burst into his kitchen carrying two large paper bags, one in each hand. He set them none too gently onto the table and began angrily pulling take-out containers out of the bags. They hadn’t planned on getting together tonight, but Daniel appreciated free food, no matter the source.  He watched in stupefied silence as Cameron stalked the few steps across his small kitchen, without even acknowledging his presence, and slung open the cabinet that housed the plates, and then jerked open the drawer with the silverware. Once settled at the table, Cameron open the boxes and spooned Chinese onto his plate with a fury he'd never seen in his friend.

“What’s wrong with _you?_ ” he asked.

No response. Daniel cautiously grabbed his own plate and fork, then settled down across the table from Cam, eying the little white boxes taking up nearly the entire table. This wasn’t the cheap buffet stuff. This food had come from one of those expensive sit-down restaurants neither one of them could afford except on special occasions.

“This is the good stuff. Did you win the lottery or something?”

“Nope,” Cam snapped, his green eyes flashing with anger. “You can thank your preening peacock that we’re eating in style tonight. Michael bought all five of my stylized tags I had up at _The Glazed Canvas._ ”

Cam’s friend from the gallery had called him the minute Michael had left with his purchases, thinking Cam would be ecstatic over the sale. But the conversation had taken a dark turn when the guy mentioned Michael’s questions about Joystyk.

“The bastard’s on to us,” Cam said in between angry bites. “He’s going to troll every gallery in this city looking for something to crucify us with. We’ve got to take down everything we’ve got out there, take it all down.”

Daniel sighed but couldn’t seem to find any anger to aim at Michael. The man _had_ warned him, after all. He’d been completely honest and had freely admitted he had a new strategy to find Joystyk, and when he gathered the proof, he would fire the person or persons responsible. The problem was that he hadn’t told Cameron about Michael’s warning. It was too late now.  They both agreed to remove everything they had for sale all over the city until things died down, but he had a feeling it was too little, too late. The damage had already been done. Michael had enough art in his possession to make the connection, _if_ he was smart enough and observant enough to find it. Michael was both. They were screwed.

He ate in wary silence while Cameron impaled his food on the sharp end of his fork. The chopsticks provided by the restaurant lay unnoticed on the table, which was probably for the best. They wouldn’t have survived the onslaught of Cam’s temper. 

When they’d both eaten their fill, he decided to drop the next bombshell. It was as good a time as any, he supposed. Cameron was already steamed; things couldn’t get any worse. “Michael invited me over to his house tomorrow just to hang out. I’m going.”

It was a misjudgment on his part to think Cameron couldn’t get any angrier. His eyes blazed hot. “Are you fucking insane??! Hang out? He’s running around this city trying to find a reason to fire us and you think he just wants to hang out with you? He doesn’t give a shit about you! He’s a manipulative asshole only looking out for his own interests! And you’re going to go over there and kiss his arrogant ass anyway just because you have the hots for him?? You’ve lost your fucking mind!”

He bit back the words he wanted to shout back in return: that Cameron had gotten them into this mess into the first place because of his vendetta against GEM, that it was their fault for not staying one step ahead of Michael and pulling their art long before now, and also that Cameron had had his shot at love and he just wanted the same opportunity. Was that too fucking much to ask?? But he choked on the words and kept silent. Cameron was his best friend, and he knew there were some things he just couldn’t say aloud if he wanted it to stay that way.

“I know he can be a jerk, and I know you don’t like him,” he said quietly. “But I do. Maybe if we can become friends, or bond on some level, then it won’t so easy for him to fire me when the time comes. At this point, I don’t think I have anything to lose by trying.”

His short burst of temper had run its course. Cam shook his head and sighed. “Oh, you definitely have something to lose. I know how guys like him operate. He’s going to use you for whatever purpose he’s got in mind, and then he’s going to fuck you over when he’s done with you. You’re making a big mistake.”

His independent stubborn streak flared to life. “Maybe I am, but it’s fucking mine to make!”

Cameron sighed and pushed back from the table. “It’s at this point I would usually say, ‘It’s your funeral’, but this time you’re going to take me down with you. And you’re okay with that? That’s how you treat your friends?? You just throw them under the bus and that’s fine as long as you get what _you_ want??”

He closed his eyes to Cam’s accusing glare. There was some truth to his words, and that was bitter pill for him to swallow. When did stubbornness and a single-minded focus on a goal cross the line and become complete selfishness? Had he reached that point where his own needs and wants superseded everyone else’s? Even though he suspected that was becoming the new truth in his life, he still couldn’t step back from Michael Golland. The pull was too strong. He didn’t understand it, but he felt it every moment he was away from Michael. Was it just sexual attraction behind it? Or was it something else?

“Why do you this to yourself?” Cam asked, breaking the strained silence.

Daniel’s eyes snapped open. “Do what?”

Cameron sighed, and he didn’t like the sad sound of it. “I’m your friend and I love you like a brother, but it’s hard sometimes to sit back and watch you set yourself up for failure time after time. When it comes to men, you have some pretty low standards. Every one of your relationships has fallen apart in just a few weeks. What was the longest one, two months or something? Have you ever asked yourself why that is?”

He knew why none had lasted: his fucked up childhood. He was a strong, confident person on the outside, a talented artist with a bright future in his chosen career. Inside, he was a broken, emotional mess, but no one knew that but him. He’d gotten very good at hiding it from the world. It got a little harder to hold all the pieces together when someone was sleeping in the same bed with him 24/7.

“Maybe this time it’ll be different,” he said weakly, willing himself to believe his own lie.

Cameron made an angry, frustrated sound. “The man’s a prick. He’s rich, spoiled and he’s a selfish jerk. And do I need to remind you that he’s STRAIGHT?? That means he likes pussy, Daniel, in case you’ve forgotten the definition of that word. What the hell are you thinking? You think you’re going to turn him queer just with your charm and good looks? There are a lot of nice guys out there— _gay guys_ —but you don’t even give them a chance.”

What he couldn’t tell Cameron was that the really nice gay guys also had really high standards, and he would never meet them, even if he wanted to. Not with his past…

“I’m going over to his place tomorrow.”

Cameron got up from the table, sighing. “You can have the leftovers,” he tossed over his shoulder as he walked past Daniel and out of the kitchen.

* * *

 

“Ingenious.”

Michael tossed the magnifying glass on his desk and relaxed back in his chair, rubbing his tired eyes and loosening the tightness in his shoulders. After the sitting with Daniel, he’d gotten some dinner on the fly, then had rushed home to study the artwork. After a frustrating hour of finding absolutely nothing, he'd left his library and had sought out Claire. A pleasant hour or so in her company had been all he’d needed to return to his mission with a fresh eye and the confidence that he would identify Joystyk before sunrise.

It was nearing four am when he finally discovered just how clever Joystyk actually was. The proof was there, in all the artwork spread out all over his desk. Right there, plain as day, if a person knew where to look, and he did. He now knew Joystyk's true identity.

He closed his eyes and smiled to himself, while his cock strained against his jeans, begging for release. He gripped it and squeezed, the pressure pushing a soft moan from his throat. He loved the power surge that always came with control. The strings were back in his hands once again and he was going to thoroughly enjoy making that marionette dance.

 

* * *

 

The Golland crib was everything Daniel expected it to be: a two-story mansion that looked big enough to house his entire hometown of Santa Paula. Tall white columns stood guard over the massive double-doored front entrance. Perfectly manicured beds filled with exotic flowers hugged the outside bricks and meandered alongside the artfully arranged stone pathways that curled around the house. Two reflecting pools flanked the rock sidewalk that led to the entryway. He figured the money spent on the front lawn alone could have kept him in pizza and beer for years.

What he didn't expect was Michael’s house. It was small—ridiculously small compared to the mansion—and covered in ivy. It looked like it'd fallen right out of the pages of some story book, and accidentally landed smack in the middle of decadence. Only a few hundred feet of shrubs and small trees separated it from the main house. It was oddly out of place on the same property as the mansion, but still beautiful in its own way. He navigated his way through thick clusters of shrubbery and flowers before reaching the entrance. Michael met him at the door in those much awaited, and highly anticipated, two-hundred dollar jeans.

"So that's what two hundred dollar jeans look like," he commented as Michael ushered him in to the foyer.

"Actually these were three-fifty. The two hundred dollar ones are my handyman jeans. These are for company."

Daniel didn't laugh, roll his eyes, or even get upset at the smarmy smirk Michael had on his face. He couldn't because he'd just fallen down the rabbit hole and landed flat on his back with the wind knocked out of him. _What the fuck is this??_ He followed Michael though the small living room—blue velvet, striped chintz, Persian silk flowers and dainty lace—into the kitchen, which was an ocean of blue: blue gloss cabinets, blue checked napkins, Blue Willow china, and frilly curtains with blue accents. Michael gestured to the small round wooden table in the middle of the room. He had to pull his jaw up off his feet before he could even sit down.

A pitcher of tea and two glasses appeared on the beige and blue tablecloth. "Did it pass inspection?" Michael asked as he poured.

"Uh...." He was at a loss for words for once. He didn't know who really lived here, but it sure as hell wasn't Michael Golland. Michael wasn't a light blue velvet, striped beige chintz kind of guy. He was dark shadows and vibrant colors. He was chrome, not country blue. He wasn't miniature paper lampshades decorated with lace. He was sexy recessed lighting and black satin sheets. "Claire must have done the decorating, because this is so not you."

He laughed softly, his clear blue eyes dancing, the smirk firmly in place. "Not Claire. She has other talents besides decorating."

 _Damn his arrogant ass._  He silently cursed Michael for the images that flashed through his mind: a five-second porno featuring Michael in all his naked glory, and Claire (who the fuck cared what she looked like), nude on a bed of silk and fucking each other's brains out. A green haze of jealousy swirled around his heart.

"Then who? Because this is not your style at all. This is..." _Gay, but with way too much blue to be considered fabulous,_ he added silently.

"This is my mother's house," Michael answered.

He sipped his tea and listened attentively while Michael talked of his mother's obsession with English cottages. She'd begged her husband, Michael's father, to let her design and build one on the grounds of their estate. He'd indulged her, finally, and the house Michael now lived in was the end result of a year of planning, design and construction.

"We spent a lot of time in this house, me and her. Reading, cooking, laughing. I was a stupid, immature teenager, but you wouldn't have known it if you'd heard the conversations we had about books." He chuckled softly, then his eyes grew distant. "She was my best friend."

"Was?"

Michael sat back in his chair and cleared his throat, coming back to the present. "She died when I was sixteen, almost seventeen." He abruptly stood up and moved to the sink, standing with his back to the table. Daniel became mesmerized by the muscles moving beneath his form-fitting shirt as he rinsed out his glass. His eyes strayed south more than once. Michael's ass filled his jeans to perfection.

He reluctantly stopped drooling and offered his condolences, even though they were a decade too late. "I'm so sorry. What happened?"

When Michael turned around, his expression was closed, his eyes guarded. "An accident. At least that's what the police said."

 _But you don't believe that for a minute,_  he thought. He managed to keep from frowning, but couldn't conceal his curiosity. He was dying to ask for details, but decided to keep his mouth shut. If Michael wanted to tell him more, he would. They held each other's gaze for a few pointed moments before Michael finally broke the spell and smoothly changed the subject.

"I suppose Cameron told you I bought some of his artwork yesterday?"

He nodded. "He mentioned it." _Understatement of the year._

"I stumbled across them accidentally." Michael shrugged. "They caught my eye for some reason, so I thought they might provide some clues to the identity of Joystyk. I went over each one of them with a fine-toothed comb last night."

Michael was playing his cards close to his vest. His usual arrogant smirk was gone, his eyes intense and focused on Daniel's face. His balls felt half their size, but Daniel was determined to stay outwardly calm. _Never let them see you sweat_. "And what did you discover?"

Michael sighed deeply, relaxed and burrowed his hands in his jeans pockets. "I discovered that Cameron is certainly talented, but he's not even in your league."

His jaw dropped at the unexpected praise. "Did you just...compliment me?"

A small smile tugged at the corners of Michael's oh so kissable mouth. "Yes. I don't think I was being glib...was I?"

 _Who the hell says 'glib' in a normal conversation??_ Luckily, that thought didn't make it past his filter.

"Well, thanks, but you're wrong about that." Michael frowned, obviously peeved at being corrected, but what the fuck ever. He adored those little wrinkles in his forehead almost as much as he loved his almost-smile. "Cameron just has a different style than me. He's an expressionist, a fauvist. He loves to experiment with color and illusion. I'm a realist. I paint what I see exactly as it exists in real life. So, it's not that I'm more talented than him, he's just a different kind of artist."

Michael left the sink and sank back down into his chair. "But what use is art if it doesn't convey some kind of truth to the person viewing it?" He shook his head and frowned. "That abstract stuff of Jackson Pollack's, and Dali's nonsensical shit, none of that does anything for me. I don't get it and I don't want to have to take an art course to understand what I'm looking at. But your work...yours reaches out to me from the canvas; it grabs me with its fist and won't let go. I like art that wrings emotion out of you whether you want it to or not, and yours does that."

Michael was looking at him, waiting for a response, but he was so utterly shocked and flattered that he couldn't do anything but sit there like an idiot and blush his ass off. Michael loved his art, really loved it, and not just for any evidence it might give him about Joystyk. It really touched him on a deeper level. There was no greater compliment for an artist than the one Michael had just given him.

"I don't know what to say to that, except...thank you," he said softly. "I'm...uhm...I'm really flattered. Thank you."

Michael nodded and his smile wrapped around Daniel like a warm, fuzzy blanket. _What the fuck is going on? Is he flirting with me or am I imagining things? Really, just shut up, Daniel. He complimented your work not your damned cock. He's just being polite. It's you who's reading this totally wrong._

"How's my portrait coming along?"

"It's coming along really well. I'm doing the detail work now. I think you're going to like it."

Michael smiled again, that sweet, sincere smile Daniel never even knew he had. "I'm sure I will." Michael scooted his chair out from the table and stood up. "So, let's do something else."

Daniel looked up and grinned. "Okay. What?"

"There's someone I'd like you to meet, someone very dear to me."

 

**MICHAEL'S ENGLISH COTTAGE**

 

**MICHAEL'S LIVING ROOM**

 

**MICHAEL'S KITCHEN**

 


	13. The Barn

"What is this?" Daniel asked, glancing to his left. Michael was frowning, but also giving him an Are-You-A-Complete-Idiot look.

"A barn?" Michael answered as if he were talking to a small child or a brain-dead adult.

_Asshole._

"I realize it's not exactly picturesque," Michael continued. "No weathered wood or faded tobacco ads painted on the side, but it's still a barn."

He gripped the armrest on the door and stared through the windshield at a long, rectangular metal building straight out of one of his nightmares. His chest tightened, his heart raced, making him lightheaded and dizzy. He swallowed hard and fought to stay calm. He was on the verge of having a panic attack right there in Michael's Jeep in broad daylight.

Michael opened the door on his side. "Come on. There's something I want to show you."

"I don't do barns." He was barely able to get the whispered words out of his mouth.

The silence in the vehicle was deafening. He could feel Michael's gaze on him but he refused to turn and meet it. He stared out the window to his right, at the trees, so he wouldn't have to look at the metal building.

"What do you mean 'you don't do barns'?"

"It means exactly what I said. I don't do barns!" he snapped, then finally managed to turn his head and looked at Michael. "Was I being glib?"

Michael's eyes were angry shards of blue ice. He dropped his gaze to avoid getting ripped to shreds by his stare. He watched the bones in Michael's jaw flex and clench. He focused on those bones, mesmerized by their movement and how his anger seemed to sharpen his cheekbones and make them even more beautiful.

"Correct me if I'm wrong—and I might be, because I have absolutely no experience at this—but aren't people who are trying to be friends supposed to share the things they enjoy with the other person? And isn't that other person supposed to at least try to show some interest in them??"

 _Shit._ Along with the anger, he also heard the unmistakable sound of hurt in Michael's voice. Maybe Cameron was right, maybe this whole thing had been a really bad idea. "I'll just wait in the Jeep."

Michael slammed the door so hard it shook the entire vehicle and caused him to nearly jump out of his skin, which wouldn't have been a hard thing to do. He wanted nothing more at that moment than to escape his body, crawl into a canvas and a box of charcoals and not come out until his chest loosened and he could breathe normally.

_This isn't the same barn._

He wished that stupid inner voice of his would just shut the hell up. Of course it wasn't the same barn. He wasn't completely crazy, only a little fucked up in the head. This barn was a slightly different color, a lot larger, and in a completely different city.

_And he's not in there waiting for you._

The man's image floated up from the darkness of his childhood memories. He groaned painfully, squeezed his eyes shut and willed the image away. Of course the man wasn't in the barn because Michael and his fury was in there waiting for him. Waiting for his new friend to find his balls.

"You're being a wimp," he said aloud in the stillness. _And you're hurting his feelings, not to mention the guy's really trying to be your friend, and the first thing you do is shut his ass down because of your childhood baggage?? He doesn't know how fucked up you are, and you're going to keep it that way._

He took a couple of deep breaths and let them out. Again. Again. He let go of the arm rest and flexed his fingers, loosening the tightness in the joints and letting the flutters of panic fade away. He hadn't been in a barn since he was fourteen years old, but...

_I can do this. I can._

He finally opened the door and got out.

* * *

 

Daniel didn't know what his subconscious mind had expected, but standing just inside the oversized doorway, all he saw was an ordinary barn with lots of hay. The stalls were more spacious than normal, but they were still just plain wooden stalls. The smell of horse dung was in the air which, surprisingly, only briefly turned his stomach. In just a few short moments, he was used to it; his lungs breathed it in and accepted the new odor like it was an old friend, instead of a distant enemy.

There were two amazing horses, each in its own stall, and a white goat. _Wait. A goat??_   Michael was standing at the head of one of the horses—a reddish-brown bay with an ebony mane and tail—murmuring to it and gently scratching its jaw. The horse snorted softly and Michael's head lifted, his gaze finding Daniel standing in the open doorway.

"Come on in," Michael said in a surprisingly pleasant voice. "They won't bite. Well..." He laughed softly. "...that is unless you hurt them. Then they might nip a small hole in you."

Five minutes ago Michael had looked ready to rip his head off out in the Jeep. Now he was smiling, laughing, and talking in a pleasant tone of voice?? Then suddenly, it felt as if someone had plugged in his brain, and the lights finally came on. He remembered the things the man had taught him:

  
_"What you must understand about these animals, Daniel, is that they’re all about body language. They know when you're happy, angry, sad, or anxious. They see posture, hear tone of voice, and smell whatever weird biological chemical you happen to be producing today. A horse's attitude is always going to mirror whatever you're feeling. So, when you walk through those doors, leave all the crap out there. Let your horse's back become your sanctuary where the bad of the world can't touch you."_

  
That inner voice wanted to argue with his version of the memory, wanted to remind him that the man had lied as much as he'd told the truth, but he ignored that voice. He wasn't going to go there, not now. He was sure he'd relive it all later, in the vivid technicolor of his nightmares. Right then, all he longed for was to touch one of those horses. He ached to feel the texture of their hair against his fingers. So, he calmly stepped inside the barn and stepped back in time, surprised that he was breathing normally and he wasn't afraid.

"I just now realized everything I've assumed to know about you has been completely wrong," he said, shaking his head. "You're a snobby millionaire with calloused hands. Yes, I noticed. You're not Ivy League. You cook your own meals. You live in a cottage right out of a fairy tale. You drive a Jeep, and you have your own goat??"

Michael laughed again. "I'll explain the goat in a minute, and the rest..." He shrugged. "Sorry I don't fit your stereotype of snobby millionaires. Let's get the introductions out of the way." He stepped out of the bay's stall and gestured to the one beside it, which held a golden Palomino with a stark white mane and tail, that was calmly observing him. "This is Jamie, a gelding—"

"Quarter horse. A Palomino, to be precise," Daniel interjected.

Michael frowned, then the wrinkles disappeared, replaced by the sincerest smile Daniel had ever seen on his face. "You know horseflesh?"

He nodded. "I ate, lived and breathed horses from the time I was twelve until we moved to Los Angeles when I was fourteen." He nodded again, this time in the direction of the other stall. "That one's a bay. A mare."

The familiar smirk danced at the edges of Michael's mouth. "Yes, and she's mine. Let me introduce you." He left Jamie's stall and returned to the mare. "Daniel Hart...this is Claire. And Claire...this is the annoying artist I was telling you about."

His mouth dropped open, then snapped shut. "Claire? 'The most beautiful soul I've met in this life' Claire??"

That dazzling white smile burst onto Michael's face. "That's the one."

"You asshole!"

Michael snickered at the insult and kept on grinning. He was torn between wanting to rip the arrogant motherfucker's dick off and stuffing it in his ear, or dancing a jig the entire length of the barn. Or course, if he ripped his dick off, he would feel compelled to give it a tender little kiss first, and maybe even a bit of tongue around the tip. He might even slide the entire thing into his mouth, just once, before he busted the asshole's fucking eardrum with it.

He suddenly realized he was being petty when he really should be relieved. Michael didn't have a girlfriend. He wasn't madly in love with some rich bitch with plastic tits. Nor was he screwing the blonde out of her hair on a set of black satin sheets.

"And she really likes the new shoes," Michael said, grinning and pointing at Claire's hooves. "Thanks for the suggestion."

"Ohhh...." He laughed, shaking his head. "You really are in need of a good ass-kicking."

Michael's smile disintegrated, replaced by his characteristic smarmy smirk. His blue stare was calm, but intense, his voice low and even. "Be careful, Daniel. I'm stronger than I look."

 _Jesus Fucking Christ!_ Was the man trying to cure erectile dysfunction with just his eyes and that voice?? Or was that fuck-hot sexiness purely accidental? He wondered if he'd just been issued a velvet-coated threat, or an extremely sexy challenge. He would gladly sacrifice his left nut to find out.

"Why don't you get acquainted while I explain about the goat," Michael said, his voice back to normal.

He approached Claire first. She was a beautiful animal. After a few moments of hesitant touching, rubbing and patting, he knew why Michael was so attached to her. Claire was obviously very intelligent and extremely responsive. She seemed to understand every word Daniel murmured to her, as odd as that sounded. Her ears flicked whenever he spoke; she snorted when she wanted his attention.

"My mother bought these horses when I was just ten years old," Michael said. "Jamie was hers and Claire was mine."

"Unusual names for horses," he commented while giving Claire's neck a little scratch.

"They're characters from her favorite book. And the goat?" He chuckled, shaking his head. "We had no choice but to take the goat. Jamie was attached to it. The owner said they'd been inseparable since the moment Sam was born. Sam...that's the goat's name."

"Rich people usually have Arabians. Why quarter horses?" he asked, moving to Jamie's stall.

"My mother wanted me to have something of my own, something my father wouldn't want anything to do with."

He frowned at Michael's strange answer. Families were supposed to do things together, share experiences, make memories for the family photo album. "I don't understand," he said.

Jamie was a little more spirited than Claire, but nothing like the hot-tempered horse he'd ridden as a boy. He also seemed a little more wary of new faces than Claire had been, so he welcomed the extra time to get acquainted while he listened to Michael's explanation of how he'd come to own quarter horses instead of Arabians.

Michael had been ecstatic at the prospect of having two new friends that belonged only to him. He hadn't cared about the breed, only that he now had something interesting to do after school. Only later, when he was much older, did he learn why his mother had bought quarter horses. She'd bought the horses with her own money, because she'd known that if she asked her husband for it, he would have taken over, like he took over everything. She would have been forced to buy Arabians, and within a few months, a young Michael would have been forced to show them all over the West Coast, or maybe even breed them to sell for profit.

"My mother was an angel in human form," Michael said softly. "She knew her youngest son didn't get along well with people. She saw his loneliness, his isolation, and she found a way to fix it."

Daniel's fingers stilled their exploration of Jamie's mane. He turned and locked eyes with Michael, remembering back to how horses had filled an emptiness in his own heart during those two years. "Horses are easy to love," he said.

Michael nodded. "Yes, they are. They don't care whether you failed or succeeded at something. They don't demand explanations or offer ridicule. They don't care what you wear, what you think. There's no interrogation."

"All they care about is who you are that day," he said, picking up where Michael left off. "And you don't have to tell them, either. They already know, because they know you better than anyone. Your horse's back is a sanctuary, where the bad of the world can't touch you."

Michael sighed, and a hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "It's refreshing to find someone who actually gets it, someone who understands how freeing it is to be around horses."

He released his fingers from Jamie's mane and stuck out his hand, grinning. "Hi. I'm Daniel Hart. It's nice to meet you."

And he was stupid enough to think he'd seen the most sincere smile that Michael Golland possessed. He was wrong. Michael clasped his hand; his eyes were as warm as a blue summer sky. "I'm Michael Golland, and the pleasure is all mine."

Daniel's pulse quickened; his heart thudded in his chest with the force of a hundred quarter horses galloping at full speed. Michael dropped his hand way too soon.

"Did you have a special horse?" Michael asked.

"Yeah, I did. He was a solid black Arabian named Apache. He wasn't mine...uh...he belonged to our neighbor. Apache was fifteen hands of fire and brimstone." He chuckled at the memory of their tempestuous relationship. "He tossed my ass off his back over and over again until I finally got it through my thick skull who was in charge. Once I understood who wore the pants in that relationship, we got along fine together."

Michael chuckled and nodded in agreement. "When your horse becomes an extension of your body, and you both think and move in the same thought, the same instant, it's a damned good feeling, isn't it?"

"Yes," he answered softly, entranced by the connection forming between him and Michael. "You feel safe, and you trust each other implicitly."

Michael smiled sadly and sighed. "If only we could trust people like we trust our horses..."

Suddenly he felt immensely guilty for lying to Michael about Joystyk. He really _was_ a criminal who had no respect for private property, even if the owner of said property was a homophobic bastard with an arrogant, but extremely luscious, snobby son. How could he ever have a true friendship with Michael with that lie hanging in the air between them?

"I would suggest we take a ride, but it's supposed to rain. Maybe next time?"

"I would love that... _next time_ ," Daniel answered sincerely.

As they walked back to the Jeep, he knew he would be drawing bays and palominos, and even Arabians, the next time his dreams stole away his sleep.  He would also be drawing sharp cheekbones, full and sexy bottom lips, and painting eyes with vibrant blue irises.

**CLAIRE**

**JAMIE**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: This chapter would not have been possible without the help of Equivamp. Her knowledge of horses, and her insight into their relationships with people, were invaluable.


	14. Trespassing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a domestic violence scene.

A sexy red Viper with black detailing was parked in Michael’s driveway. “Looks like you have company. Nice ride,” he commented, pursing his lips in appreciation and wondering who the owner was.

“I didn’t invite anyone else over,” Michael said brusquely, slamming the gearshift into park, and exiting the Jeep with a bone-jarring door slam.

Daniel scrambled out and followed him through the front door and into the living room. _Jesus fuck almighty! Who is this??_  He wasn’t sexually attracted to women at all, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate their beauty. The woman standing in the middle of Michael’s living room was absolutely stunning. The artist in him did a quick inventory of her physical assets: nearly perfect proportions—large breasts, tiny waist and full hips—just the right amount of cheekbone to give her face classic elegance without appearing harsh, stylishly cut straight blonde hair (natural, no roots) that almost touched her shoulders, expensive clothes and jewelry, long, slender legs that ended in some very sexy heels. The package as a whole was understated and elegant. This woman was refined, a class act if he'd ever seen one. He would love to draw her, preferably nude. He also couldn’t help but wonder if Michael was doing her.

“Get the fuck out of my house, _now.”_

Well that certainly answered his unspoken question. He glanced at Michael’s face and was shocked at the fury he saw in his features. The man who’d joked and laughed in the barn, and murmured soft endearments to Claire, was gone. The bones in his jaw were clenched tight and flexing; his cheekbones had gone razor sharp again. _God, the man is beautiful when he’s angry._

“Is that any way to treat a lady?” Her voice was soft and sensual; a smirk tugged gently at the corners of her mouth.

“Get out of my house.”

A soft laugh bubbled up out of her throat. “It’s my understanding that this isn’t your house. It was your mother's house.”

He watched the two of them, his eyes flicking from one face to the other, unsure what he should do. Should he leave? Stay? He decided to introduce himself.  He stuck out his hand. “Hi. I’m Daniel Hart.”

Her gaze flicked away from Michael’s face and briefly met his. “Would you mind? This is a private conversation.”

He quickly revised his first impression. She was a bitch, a _refined_ bitch. He looked to Michael for some guidance, but he was paying no attention to Daniel. His steely blue gaze was glued to the woman’s face. It was time for the fifth wheel to roll on out of there.

“I’ll just…uhm… go outside for a bit,” he said, for all the good it did. Neither one of them seemed to care that he was even in the room. He shut the front door behind him and stood on the stoop contemplating whether he should just leave or hang around in case the woman actually listened and left. He and Michael were supposed to have a light afternoon meal together and, frankly, he'd been looking forward to it ever since Michael had mentioned it in the barn. His stubbornness, and his curiosity, finally won out. If Michael had wanted him to leave, he would have said so. He leaned against the front door and put his ear to the wood, straining to hear what was being said inside.  
  
“I’m going to tell you one last time to get out of my house. I don’t want to see you or talk to you. I want nothing to do with you.”

“You embarrassed me in public and I am not going to stand for that. You owe me an apology, Michael.”

“I don’t owe you _SHIT! GET OUT!_ ”  
  
He jumped at the unexpected volume of Michael’s voice and the level of his anger. This situation had the potential to get really ugly really fast. He put his hand on the doorknob and waited.  
  
“You don't have to scream at me. I’m not here to fight. I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately. I miss you, Michael. I don’t like this anger between us. I want us to be friends.”  
  
There was a short silence, then Michael was screaming again for her to keep her fucking hands off of him. Before he could even envision what was happening in his mind, he heard the unmistakable sound of someone getting the shit slapped out of them, a high-pitched scream, then a loud thud. _Shit!_  He fumbled with the doorknob and practically fell into the living room as the door gave way and slammed against the wall. What he saw stunned the hell out of him. The woman was lying on the floor on her back, her sexy heels kicking at the hardwood floor, her hands slapping at Michael’s head and body, and she was screaming at the top of her lungs. Michael was straddling her hips and punching her brutally in the face.

Daniel swore when he heard the sickening sound of bone crunching; his fight or flight mechanism kicked in. He grabbed Michael from behind, forcibly dragging him off the woman and pulling him to the side. _Damn, the fucker is strong!_ It took all the strength he had to hold Michael in a chokehold. He screamed at the woman to get out of the room. She scrambled from the floor, blood pouring from her nose and mouth and ran, sobbing, out of the living room, screaming that she was going to call the police as her feet pounded up the stairs. He heard an upstairs door slam and breathed a sigh of relief.  Michael took advantage of that moment and burst out of his grip, pounding down the short hallway to the stairs. With a burst of adrenaline, Daniel overtook him and slammed his stupid ass against the wall and pinned him there. Michael’s entire body was shaking with fury; his eyes were wild and unfocused. _What the fuck is going on??_

“Get your god-damned hands off of me!!”

Michael struggled to get out from beneath him, but as strong as he was, Daniel was stronger, his naturally stocky body built for fighting. Sweating from the effort of keeping Michael pinned to the wall, he started trying to calm him down. “You heard her, Michael! She’s calling the police! You need to be calm when they get here. They don’t need to see you out of control like this. Calm down, okay? Just relax and take a deep breath for me. Can you do that?”

Through all his desperate pleas to calm down, Michael held his gaze. The wildness in his eyes finally left; his body no longer trembled with fury. Michael stared into his eyes and took his advice, breathing deeply and exhaling when he was told.

Their bodies were pressed close together against the wall, and under different circumstances, Daniel would have been elated at the close contact and would be sporting a very respectable boner. Instead, he was emotionally reeling, unable to reconcile the kind man in the barn with this man staring blankly back at him, a man who was tender with a horse, but who could hit a woman in the face multiple times with his fists.

“Let’s go sit down in the living room, okay?”

Michael nodded. He cautiously relaxed his grip on Michael's shoulders and broke the contact between their bodies. Without showing any resistance, physical or otherwise, Michael walked back to the living room and he followed, relieved that the worst seemed to be over.

They sat on the sofa to wait for the police, because, after seeing the condition of the woman's face, he was pretty sure they were on their way.

After a few minutes of awkward silence, Michael finally spoke, and his voice was back to normal. “I need to get my checkbook…for bail. It’s upstairs.”

Daniel slowly shook his head. “You’re not moving from this sofa.”

The arrogant smirk was back. “I broke the bitch’s nose and probably blacked both of her eyes. It’ll be awhile before she’s beautiful again, so I’m quite happy right now. I’m not going to bother her."

 _Unbelievable!_ The man had absolutely no remorse for what he’d done; he even seemed pleased with himself. He shook his head again. “You are not moving from this sofa, nor are you going upstairs. If you try to, I’ll stop you, and believe me, I can.”

Michael nodded his head in acceptance. “Okay, then you go upstairs and get it for me. It’s in the nightstand by my bed. Second drawer.”

He rolled his eyes. “Right. And while I’m gone, you’re going to go straight out that door.”

Michael actually laughed. “Why would I run? It’s just a misdemeanor battery. They’re not going to do anything to me.”

He was sickened by the fact that he believed him. Michael was filthy rich, his father even richer, and everyone knew the wheels of justice turned a lot differently for people with money and power. He was repulsed by the whole situation. He should have listened to Cameron.  “Fine. I’ll get it.”

 

* * *

 

  
"Are you okay in there? Do you need me to do anything for you? Call an ambulance maybe?"

"I already did that...and the police," the woman answered, her voice muffled by the solid wood door separating Michael's bedroom from the master bath. "He's not going to get away with this."

Daniel had his doubts about that. If he had to bet money on it, he'd say Michael was going to walk away from this with only a few thousand dollars less in his pocket for bail and no other consequences.

He backed away from the bathroom door and turned to face Michael's bedroom. Despite being thoroughly disgusted with the unrepentant man waiting for him downstairs, he was fascinated by Michael's private space. The beige rail bed frame, which was definitely feminine and probably bought by his mother, didn't fit Michael's personality, but the rest of the room certainly did. The fireplace, rustic hardwood flooring, thick crossbeams that formed the ceiling, and the exposed rafters of the roof gave the room a more masculine feel. Neutral colors in the rugs and accessories, along with a deep red coverlet on the bed, was a refreshing break from all the country blue downstairs. And the artwork...

He turned in a slow circle, his mouth open in stunned amazement at the number of pieces in the room: on the walls, the fireplace mantle and any other available flat surface. He smiled as his eyes quickly scanned every piece, momentarily forgetting he was utterly repelled by the violence he'd just witnessed. Michael obviously loved art, and he wasn't the stereotypical rich guy buying up all the classics he could find, either. Michael's tastes were eclectic and well off the beaten path. He only recognized one of the prints: a Seurat.

 _Wait, what??? Patch of Grass??!!_ _That copyright violating motherfucker!_ was his first thought when his gaze landed on the print, which was hung on the wall above a squat bookshelf. He had repeatedly refused to sell prints of that painting. Patch of Grass was his soul poured out on a canvas. He'd never intended to make money from it, and just the idea that Michael had gone behind his back and had had a print made without his permission, infuriated him. He and Michael were going to have a serious discussion about intellectual property rights very soon.

Pushing his anger aside, his eyes returned to the painting hanging on the wall facing Michael's bed. He'd skimmed over it in his initial sweep of the room, but something about it drew him back. He moved closer to get a better look, then stopped in shock; he felt like someone had kicked him in the stomach with both feet without warning.

"What the hell??" He whispered aloud to the empty room. He'd never seen the painting before; the artist's name was unfamiliar to him. The piece was unnerving. The broad brush strokes were crude, furious slashes of purple and black on the canvas, but the emotion in the picture reached out and grabbed him by the throat. Chill bumps rose on his skin as he studied it. It was fucking creepy, no other way to put it. Then he remembered their earlier conversation in the kitchen. This was the kind of emotional art Michael liked. Despite that, he wondered what would have ever possessed him to buy such a depressingly morbid painting, let alone hang it where he could easily see it from his bed.

A short burst of a siren let him know that Michael's ride to city hall had arrived. He cursed at not having more time to look at all the art in the room. He hurriedly located the checkbook and closed the bedroom door behind him.

 

**DEIDRA (played by Sheridan Smith)**

 

**MICHAEL'S BEDROOM**

 

**THE DISTURBING PAINTING IN MICHAEL'S BEDROOM**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might be feeling some hate toward Michael right now, but I ask you to keep in mind that violence, especially the domestic kind, nearly always has trauma or abuse as its source.


	15. The Business Deal

"Bruises, a black eye, broken nose, and a fractured cheek bone." His attorney laid down the medical report and stared at him across the laminate desk that separated them. "Tell me what happened."

Michael shrugged. "The cunt was in my house without my permission. That's trespassing, which is against the law last time I checked. I told her three times to get out of my house and she paid no attention to me. She tried to kiss me, so I slapped the fuck out of her and knocked her ass down on the floor. Then I proceeded to make sure that she'd think twice before touching me again."

"Are you sure you didn't invite her in?" he asked, obviously skeptical.

He wanted to ram his fist in his attorneys mouth. "No, I didn't invite her in. I hate the bitch. Why would I let her in my house?"

"Why do you hate her?" 

He stared mutely at his hands. A long silence ensued, and finally his attorney got it through his thick skull that he was done with their conversation.

"Paul is not going to be happy with you."

He looked up and laughed. "So what's new? He's never happy with me."

His attorney frowned, but said nothing. They'd been through this before; he knew how Paul Golland rolled. "My advice is to plead guilty to misdemeanor battery. Since this is your second offense, they're not going to let you out on your own recognizance this time. You're going to have to post bail if you want to sleep in your own bed tonight. And you're going to volunteer to pay all of her medical bills." He stopped the official attorney bullshit and leaned forward, clasping his hands together and acting concerned. "Some counseling might help you, Michael. I urge you to consider it."

His temper erupted. "I'm not going to a shrink and if you even hint at that in the hearing I'll fire your ass!"

His attorney sighed and leaned back in his chair. "It would help your case. It would show the judge you're aware of your anger issues and you want help."

"Don't worry about my case. Daddy will kiss the boo-boo and make it all better," he said, smirking. "Can't have his problem son publicly embarrassing the family, now can he?"

His attorney sighed and gathered his papers. "I'm going to go talk to the other attorney. Sit tight."

Left alone, he stretched out his legs and squirmed to get comfortable in the cheap plastic chair. His first thought was of Daniel, which annoyed him. He was acutely aware that any other normal person in his same predicament would be worrying about his _own_ ass instead of someone else's, but he wasn't.

 _What is Daniel thinking right now?_ He cursed softly at the thought, angry that he even cared. What did it matter what some fag thought of him? _It matters because you respect him. He doesn't take your shit and you like that about him._  He raked a hand through his hair and sighed. He'd finally found someone who could tolerate his presence for more than five minutes and he'd already fucked it up, like he fucked up everything in his life. _You're going to fire him anyway, so what does it matter? You're an idiot if you think he's going to have anything to do with you after you hand him that pink slip._

A sound of disgust erupted from his throat. He'd let his temper overrule his common sense, and now, because of that one stupid mistake, he'd lost control of his marionette. He could still fire Daniel, but who would be hurt the most by that? Daniel, with his incredible talent, could find another job anywhere, but he might never find another Daniel.  He felt like he was losing control of everything, and that just pissed him the hell off.

 

* * *

 

  
As Daniel sat in the uncomfortable plastic chair staring at the floor—the pattern in City Hall’s industrial carpeting was more interesting than their monotonous paneled walls—he wondered why he was there. If the police hadn't asked him to hang around in case the judge wanted to hear his version of events, he wasn’t so sure he wouldn’t be home downing a beer and watching TV. He was that close to cutting all ties with Michael Golland.

Once he’d gotten away from the bedroom with all it’s unusual artwork, once he’d shut down that part of his brain that insisted on focusing on their time in the barn, once he’d finally cleared his head of all the sentimental mush and had stopped thinking about Michael’s physical attractiveness, everything had suddenly become clearer. Cameron was right. Michael was trouble. _No, Daniel, he’s **troubled**_ **.** _Big difference._  He huffed derisively at the unbidden thought. So he was troubled. Okay, fine. But, did he really want to be friends with someone who obviously had some pretty serious anger management issues and that short of a fuse?  The woman’s battered and bloody face forced itself into his mind. He couldn’t forget it, nor could he get rid of the image of Michael pounding his fists into her face with such fury. He was no wimp by any means—he’d had his share of bloody fights as a teenager—but he’d never, _ever_ hit a girl. He'd been raised better than that, but apparently Michael hadn't.

“What are you doing here?”

He looked up to see Michael towering over him, his characteristic arrogance draped over him like a designer trench coat.

“The police asked me to hang around in case the judge wanted to hear my side of things, but nobody ever sent for me.”

Michael smirked. “No need. I told them everything, then pleaded guilty to misdemeanor battery. Donated a few thousand dollars to their coffers and then…” He smiled arrogantly. “…here I am, free to go. Just like I told you I would be.”

He fought the anger bubbling up inside of him. Social justice had been one of the over-riding themes of his childhood, with his father being a lawyer and his mother heavily involved in charity and volunteer work. You helped people, not hurt them, and if you fucked up you suffered consequences. Watching Michael walk away from this without any appreciable punishment went against everything he'd been taught. Michael's smarmy arrogance didn’t help matters either. He bit back what he really wanted to say and settled for glaring at him instead.

Suddenly Michael pulled his cell out of his jeans pocket and glanced at the screen, his lips thinning into an angry line. He turned the phone off and stuffed it back in his pocket.  “Could I sleep on your sofa tonight?” 

His jaw dropped at the man’s gall. “You have your own house.”

Michael rolled his eyes. “My father is back early. He just touched down at LAX and he’s throwing a little tantrum. I need to be somewhere else tonight.”

"Get a hotel room," he snapped.

"He'll find me. I need somewhere he'd never think to look."

He thought it might be better for everyone involved if Paul Golland _did_ find his son tonight. Michael's father didn’t seem like the kind of man who would tolerate bad behavior without some consequences. Anything good that happened in this city, Paul Golland was involved in it, so perhaps justice would be rendered in this case after all—private, family justice. Then he remembered Cameron telling him at the Christmas party that Michael's father had gotten him out of the same type of mess once before. So maybe his father was just throwing a tantrum because he had to fix yet another mess. While Michael stared down at him, waiting for an answer, he was forced to make a split-second decision. Silent alarms were going off in his head, but because his parents had done a very good job ingraining in him the idea of helping those who needed it, he ignored the warnings.

“Sure. But just this one night.”

Michael nodded, his expression blank and unreadable for once. “Thank you,” he said simply.

 

* * *

 

Paul wanted to hit something, tear something up, do some damage to someone, preferably his fuck-up of a son, but indulging in a fit of rage wasn't an option at the moment. Michael had turned off his phone—too big of a pussy to face him—and Martin Pierce was sitting across from him, waiting patiently for their business meeting to commence, watching him, listening. It was imperative he appear calm on the outside, when in reality, he wanted to choke the life out of Michael for his juvenile inability to control himself for a mere three fucking days.

He cleared his throat when he heard the voice of his assistant greeting him through the phone. "I'm in the middle of a meeting, so I need you to drop whatever you're doing and locate my son. He's not answering his phone, which is unusual for him." He added a tremor to his voice, just enough to convince Pierce that he was a concerned father. "I'm very worried about him. Start with his penthouse in the city. If he's not there, check the luxury hotels first." If Michael was anything, he was predictably spoiled; he loved his luxuries and couldn't go a night without them. Paul seriously doubted he'd be found in a Super 8 eating pizza from a cardboard box no matter how desperate he was to avoid his own father. "Call me when you find him, no matter how late."

He disconnected the call and turned his attention to his visitor. "I'm sorry you had to hear that." He grimaced and sighed. "Being a parent isn't a nine-to-five job, nor is it always the blessing people say it is."

"Your son's in trouble?" he asked, and Paul heard no judgement in his voice, only genuine concern.

"Yes, unfortunately. _Again_. He's very impulsive. He never thinks about the consequences of his actions. It's a full-time job keeping him in line."

"I understand completely," Pierce commiserated. "In my case, it's my daughter."

They spent a few minutes bonding over the immature acts of their respective children before finally addressing the issue that was the reason for their late-night meeting.

"My contact in Boston is even better than I'd hoped. He shares our mutual desire to preserve the... _cultural landscape_...of this country."

Pierce laughed softly. "Cultural landscape, indeed. Does his desire extend beyond the theoretical?"

Paul smiled, nodding. "Far beyond. We've found the perfect location: the Dominican Republic. It has everything we're looking for: a well-developed communications infrastructure, a corrupt government, high unemployment, 68% of the population Roman Catholic, and best of all...it's outside the United States' legal jurisdiction."

"What about...clients?" Pierce asked.

"My contact already has a few families in Boston, and the surrounding areas, who are interested, but they want to see results, of course. As you know, my homeless shelter, Helping Hands, is the largest and busiest one in LA, so we can certainly tap into those resources in the beginning. Homeless people don't have nosy families wondering where they are, so it'll be easy to use them to gather some hard data to show perspective clients our success rate."

Pierce nodded. "Perfect. And is the climate in the Dominican Republic still favorable for other entrepreneurial opportunities besides saving the cultural landscape?"

Paul smirked. "It is. The crackdown on the Colombians is just for show. There's corruption at every level of government. We shouldn't have any difficulties in that area. So, are you in?"

"I'd like to personally meet your contact, and I want to see a detailed business plan, along with a budget, of course, but..." He nodded and smiled. "Yes. I am definitely in."

Paul smiled, rose and offered his hand to Pierce. "Welcome to Casa Alianza...Covenant House."

Being wealthy and powerful had its perks, but to him, doing God's work was an aphrodisiac like no other. 

 

 


	16. Therapy

Daniel angrily fumbled the key into the lock and pushed through the front door, stalking down the hallway to his bedroom and leaving Michael to fend for himself. He needed to get his temper under control before he said or did something he would regret come Monday morning. He had to remember that he needed his job, not just to pay the bills, but to pretty up his resume in case he decided to move on to greener pastures.  He tossed his jacket on the bed, pried off his shoes and leaned against the door. The cluttered space that was his bedroom disappeared behind his closed lids, his deep breaths the only discernible sound. But despite his attempt to calm down and clear the negativity from his mind, he kept replaying their conversation in the car ride home: 

 

_“What’s the woman’s medical condition? Is she all right?”_

_Michael snorted and continued looking out the side window. “I don’t give a fuck what her condition is. In fact, I hope the cunt gets pneumonia and dies. It would save me from having to fork out my hard-earned money on her whore ass.”_

_Daniel gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white. “That’s totally uncalled for. She’s a human being with a family who loves her. What kind of asshole wishes someone would die knowing that their death would cause other people pain??”_

_Michael chuckled. “Me. I’m that asshole.”_

_Daniel should have just kept his mouth shut. He knew he was just going to waste precious oxygen trying to reason with the guy, but his social justice gene just wouldn’t let him stay silent._ _“Cunt is a horrible name to call a woman.”_

_“Not if it fits.”_

_He forced himself to loosen his grip on the steering wheel and relax his clenched jaw. “There is no justification for calling any woman that.”_

_Michael snickered. “Having a vagina is reason enough.”_

Disgusted and no calmer than when he’d shut the door behind him, he left the quiet sanctuary of his bedroom and headed down the hall. He had a feeling it was going to be a long night.

 

\-------------------------------------------------

 

“GEM pays you better than this.”

The first words out of the jerk’s mouth, a criticism of his house. Yes, it was going to be a very long night, and he was fresh out of patience. “If you don’t like the way I live, there’s the door.”

Michael stood in the middle of the hardwood floor, inspecting every inch of the living room like he was the lead editor for _Architectural Digest_. “I didn’t realize they sold houses on eBay,” he said, chuckling.

 _He lives in a blue-checked chintz nightmare straight out of a bad gay fairy tale and he’s criticizing **my**  house???_  He gritted his teeth. “It’s a Craftsman Style Bungalow.”

“Don’t you have a spare bedroom?” Michael asked, ignoring his comment and eyeing the sofa that was obviously much too small to accommodate his height.

“You asked to sleep on my couch.” He pointed to the forest green sofa that was currently occupied by several messy stacks of art magazines. “There it is.”

“There’s a pile of shit on it,” he observed dryly.

Daniel shot him a wide-eyed look. “Oh wow. You’re right. There is.” He wasn’t in the mood to be the perfect host and he certainly wasn’t Michael Golland’s house servant. The man had two hands that worked.

After a few moments of stubborn silence and glares, Michael finally caved and began to remove the magazines from the sofa, dropping the three stacks of books onto the floor with a loud thud. He folded his lean body onto the cleared sofa, stretched his arms out across the back of it and crossed his legs in that priggish way that annoyed Daniel. They stared at each other, Michael sporting a self-satisfied smirk and him itching to punch it off his face.

“The air of moral superiority is so thick in this room you could cut it with a knife,” he said. “Are you perfect, Daniel? Where are your angel wings, or do you only wear those on special occasions?”

“I’m not perfect, but I don’t hit women.”

Michael grinned. “I don’t hit women either. Just cunts.”

They were back to that word again. His knee-jerk reaction was to counter the comment with the same argument he’d used in the car, when he suddenly realized he was being purposely baited. Michael obviously just wanted a fight, and he was expertly pushing his buttons to get it. Backing down went against his grain, but he did it anyway.  “You want something to drink? I have milk, orange juice, water and beer.”

He wanted beer, but of course Natural Light wasn’t good enough for him, calling it ‘dishwater in a can.’ He told him he could drink it or do without, since that was what he had and he wasn’t going out to buy something else. Michael grimaced, but decided he might be able to tolerate one can of dishwater, since he had no other choice, and his host obviously lacked good taste.

Daniel clenched his jaw and bit back the insult that was just moments from bursting out of his mouth. “I’ll be right back. Make yourself comfortable.” _On my entirely too small and lumpy thrift shop couch._

Once he entered the kitchen, his mental rant began. _The guy has calloused hands instead of a manicure, he owns a Jeep instead of a Porsche, and he lives in his mother’s fairy tale cottage instead of a penthouse, yet he still thinks he’s better than everyone else. Yeah, he likes horses and is good with them, but the only reason that whole thing works is because they can’t talk back to his stupid ass. They can’t tell him what they **really** think, that he’s a snobby asshole and a first class dick. _ He suddenly felt sorry for poor Claire. The ridiculous shit she must have had to listen to from him all these years. It was a wonder she was still sane enough to put one hoof in front of the other. Michael Golland was nothing but a spoiled, rich brat and he wondered what in hell he’d been thinking when he’d decided to try and be the guy’s friend.

 _You were thinking with your dick, like you always do. Nothing new there._ He slung open the refrigerator and grabbed two beers, slammed them down on the counter, opening one and taking a big long drink. He really needed something stronger to get him through a night with an unrepentant millionaire batterer with a superiority complex.

 _You’re not being very professional, Daniel._ That disapproving voice came out of nowhere, slamming into his head and obliterating all of his childish, petty thoughts. And once that door flew open, there was nothing to stop the deluge.  _You need to take a professional step back and regroup. This isn’t about you._

“Shit,” he whispered beneath his breath. He was acting like a butt-hurt little kid just because his unrealistic idea of the perfect man had turned out to be a major disappointment. A little honest introspection was in order, it seemed.  _Take your personal feelings completely out of this, and then analyze what’s left._

Once he removed his physical attraction to Michael from the equation, and viewed him objectively as just another stranger off the street, the conclusion came pretty quickly. His training told him that Michael Golland wasn’t just an asshole who beat up women for entertainment. He was most likely a victim of some sort of trauma. Statistics proved time and again that abusers nearly always found their inspiration in past abuse. Violence was oftentimes passed on from generation to generation just like the family eye color.

The black eye and bruises on his face: he was still being abused by someone and continuing to take it.

The violence against this woman: there was too much fury in his blows for it to be something as simple as a bad breakup. There was something deeper going on between them.  No friends. No empathy for others. Bullying behavior. He was kind and gentle with animals, but obviously lacked the basic social skills necessary to integrate smoothly into society.

If he hadn't been so busy thinking only of himself and drooling over that tight ass, he would have seen the writing on the wall a long time ago.  He took a deep, cleansing breath, and for the first time since he’d left Michael’s barn, he felt completely calm and centered. Michael was manifesting the classic symptoms of BPS—Battered Person’s Syndrome. He was an emotional grenade just waiting for the wrong person to accidentally pull the pin.

He knew what he had to do.

  
\--------------------------------------------------

 

Daniel carried a chair from the kitchen into the living room, placing it in front of the coffee table that separated him from Michael. He handed Michael his beer and then moved his art junk from the top of the table to the floor, leaving a single charcoal pencil and a sketch pad in the middle. He could feel Michael's gaze following his every move.

"What are you doing?" 

He looked Michael straight in those beautiful icy blue eyes, and then immediately chastised himself for even noticing how beautiful they were. _Keep a professional distance. This is not about you._

"I want to apologize for everything I've said to you, and for the way I've acted since this happened. I _have_ been judging you, and that was wrong of me. I was way out of line. I'm sorry."

He hadn't meant to knock him completely off balance with his apology, but that's what he'd done. Michael seemed to be at a temporary loss for words. No arrogant, snide remarks. No smirk. He just seemed confused and a little curious.

"Okay," Michael managed finally, a barely-there frown creasing his forehead.

He had no idea how Michael was going to react to what he was about to say. He crossed his mental fingers and jumped in with both feet. "You've read my resume. You know my work history before I came to GEM. We've talked about art therapy at lunch; you know what it is. You know I'm qualified."

He fully expected those classic cheekbones to turn razor sharp with anger, but he was surprised to see the corners of Michael's mouth twitch. His characteristic smirk made a brief appearance just seconds before he smiled brilliantly and then laughed. "So you want to be my therapist now??"

He was grinning and not taking this seriously at all, but Daniel _was_. "Yes," he answered simply.

The smile disappeared in an instant. He watched in fascination as Michael raised that thick wall of disdain that he'd apparently spent a lifetime constructing.

"I don't need a therapist," he said, sneering. "And even if I did, I wouldn't tell you shit. You're an employee, an underling."

He ignored the social status dig; he wasn't going to allow Michael to push any more of his buttons tonight. "I'm a professional," he stated firmly, and then added softly, "and I'm your friend, probably the only one you have. I want to help you."

No sneer. No smirk. Just Michael's intense blue gaze drilling into his face. It was impossible for him to gauge what was going on behind those eyes. Michael's practiced blank expression gave nothing away.

"I'm a licensed therapist. I take my oath of confidentiality seriously. Anything you say to me from this point on will go no further than this room. You can trust me."

Michael shifted his gaze to some random spot on the coffee table, but said nothing. The stubborn silence dragged on. He took it as a good sign that Michael hadn't gotten up and stormed out, so he began the slow and gentle process of getting this wounded man to open up to him.

"You could start by telling me this woman's name and your relationship to her," he suggested gently.

The silence wasn't nearly as long this time. "Deidra Hammond, and I don't have a relationship with her. She's one of my father's whores."

 _Paul Golland has whores??_ Luckily his filter worked perfectly when he was in therapist mode, but that didn't stop him from silently speculating on the accuracy of that statement. Paul Golland was a pillar of the community, a champion for the homeless, a philanthropist who tirelessly helped immigrants, not to mention all the public works he did for the Catholic community. The man was a legend in Los Angeles.

"I can tell by your face that you don't believe me, but I assure you that my father does indeed have a stable of expensive whores, and that cunt I punched in the face is one of them."

The method of delivery was so intense and serious that he had no choice but to accept Michael's statement as truth. "I believe you," he said. "So, what happened between you and Deidra to cause that level of violence?"

Michael shrugged. "You were there. You saw what happened. She was in my house without permission and wouldn't leave—"

"No," he interrupted. "I'm not talking about that. Tell me what happened between the two of you _before_ today."

The smirk was back...in spades. In that defining moment, the clouds parted and the sun burst through the fog, shining brilliantly and illuminating the man sitting in front of him. He suddenly realized that Michael's arrogance, his haughtiness, his rudeness, his smirks, they were all just bits and pieces of armor created to protect him from having to deal with the messy, emotional part of life.

"No. I'm not telling you."

Outright refusal to confide in a therapist was common, especially in the early stages of treatment, but that didn't deter him in the slightest. "Why won't you tell me?"

A small, knowing smile. "Because you won't believe me."

"You tell me the truth, and I _will_ believe you," he said, holding Michael's gaze and refusing to look away.

He hadn't gotten that Bug-Under-the-Microscope feeling from anyone else since that day he'd been called to Michael's office after the Christmas party. He had it now. Michael was studying him intently, and he could only assume from what little he knew about him, that he was weighing all of his options. He probably had a little balance sheet inside his head with two columns: Why I Should Trust this Fag and Why I Shouldn't Trust This Fag and he was busy adding pros and cons to it in the tense silence that kept dragging on and on. He did what he'd been trained to do in these instances: he kept his mouth shut and waited patiently.  Michael's gaze abruptly shifted to the floor. He took a deep breath, let it out and then looked back up. A decision had been made.

"She raped me when I was thirteen."

That simple statement slammed into Daniel with the force of a head-on collision. It wasn't what he'd expected to hear. He fought to keep his professional mask in place, while his heart tried to pound out of his chest.

The smirk. "Why aren't you laughing?"

He swallowed hard, hoping that when he spoke his voice wouldn't tremble. "Why would I laugh?"

A snicker. "Because everyone knows that thirteen-year-old boys don't get raped. They get _laid._ "

 _This isn't about you. This isn't about you. This isn't about you._ The chant was a new soundtrack playing in the background of his mind as snippets of his own rape tried to push their way out of the locked room he'd put them in. "Did you say no?" he asked, holding Michael's gaze.

"More times than I could count. I said no. I screamed no. I fought."

"Then you were raped," he said softly.

That validation seemed to be all Michael needed. The horrible story flooded out of him in one long deluge. The pain of its telling crashed into Daniel, washing away his carefully built defenses, dragging him under and stealing his last breaths. The repressed rage he heard in Michael's narrative was all too familiar. As Michael described the disgusting sounds of her body coming together with his, the scrape of her nails on his skin, the sickening softness of her voice as she crooned endearments to him, his obsession with a small blemish in the paint on the ceiling, the horror of his own rape escaped its confines and crushed him in its smothering embrace.   _This isn't about you. This isn't about you. This isn't about you._

"I started to fight. I mean, really fight. I kicked at her and tried to punch her. He hit me hard enough to knock me out for a few moments. When I came to, I was tied down."

The narrative continued, the plot so familiar that he could have finished the story himself. Michael willing himself out of that room. Fighting the nausea. Feeling the tendrils of a new emotion curling themselves around his mind: shame. Raging to lash out. Wanting to withdraw. Praying to die. Desperate to live.

 _This isn't about you, you selfish motherfucker!!_ The soundtrack abruptly stopped. The door slammed shut on his painful past. His mind was suddenly clear and lucid, his subconscious latching onto something he'd missed. "Wait. Stop."

Michael obeyed.

"Who is 'he'?" he asked. "You said, ' _He_ hit me.' Who hit you?"

What he now saw in Michael's eyes scared the fuck out of him. In all of his twenty-six years of living, he'd never seen that level of hatred in anyone's eyes.

"My father."

He listened in shock as Michael described his father's role in his rape. His mother was away helping her sister during an illness. Michael was summoned to his father's bedroom one afternoon where he was given a lecture about how it was time he was educated in how to deal with women, something the schools would never teach him. Women were as important as a balanced portfolio, he was told. And once you acquired a suitable woman, then there were only two things a man needed to do—and do well—to ensure her continued presence: stay rich and fuck her senseless on a regular basis. Since he was too young to get a job and start on the road to riches, he was going to learn to fuck.

"He orchestrated it, and then stayed and watched to make sure it was done right. When I objected, he ridiculed me." He was a pathetic excuse for a red-blooded male. It was just his luck to be the only parent with a boy who would object to getting laid. This was his last chance to prove he was capable of being a man. Only a boy who was fucked up in the head would hit a woman who was just trying to educate him in a skill he was going to need as an adult. He wasn't normal and never had been. He needed to be sent off to find out what was wrong with him. He was disgusted by the sight of his own son.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Daniel whispered, his filter finally failing. Unprofessional of him, but he couldn't have stopped the oath if he'd wanted to. He was horrified at the level of abuse Michael had been subjected to, and at such a young age. It was no wonder the guy could maul a woman's face with his fists and feel no remorse. The rape notwithstanding, his own father obviously viewed women as something less than human, as objects, pretty prizes just to display on his mantle, and he'd taught his son the same thing.

"I'd never done anything up to that point to make my father proud of me," Michael continued. Then, unexpectedly he smiled, and it was anything but pleasant. "But I did that day. I finally did something to earn his respect. I was only thirteen. I didn't know anything about sex, so I didn't understand what had happened. I thought she'd pissed on me; it spewed all over my stomach. I almost threw up when I saw it. But you'd have thought I'd just single-handedly orchestrated world peace to see the huge grin on my father's face. He pronounced me a man right there on the spot, and apparently was so turned on by my new status that he felt compelled to fuck her himself, right there in front of me."

His professional distance shattered. This was too much. Too painful. Too raw. This was worse than anything he'd ever experienced. The gay-boy bullying of his childhood was nothing. His rape seemed insignificant compared to what Michael had gone through, and was still going through, if the bruises on his face and his barely submerged fury were any indication.  _This isn't about you, Daniel!_ He opened the drawing tablet on the coffee table and offered the charcoal pencil to Michael. "I'd like for you to do something for me."

"What?"

"Take this charcoal and draw the one thing in your life that is causing you the most unhappiness."

Michael looked at him like he'd lost his mind and then laughed. "I don't need to draw it. You already know what it is: my father. I fucking hate the bastard and wished he would just die already."

So much for the 'art' part of Art Therapy. He sighed, shut the tablet and tossed the charcoal on top of it. He'd never felt so useless in his entire life. "Have you had an honest conversation about this with your father?"

"An honest conversation??" Michael shook his head, giving him a look that plainly said he was as naive as fuck. "You obviously don't know Paul Golland on anything other than a superficial level. You don't have conversations with my father. He makes grand pronouncements and then garnishes them with lots of little clever insults. His punctuation marks are put-downs. I can almost predict what he'd say if I confronted him about it: 'You were hard enough to cut diamonds, and then you came. That's not rape, stupid boy, that's called getting fucked."

"Your father would be wrong, then," he said. "Arousal is more common during rape than people want to admit. It's something no one wants to talk about, but the physical body is capable of responding to sexual stimuli, even if the mind is lagging way behind. Just because you got an erection and then came doesn't mean you weren't raped. You didn't want this contact with her; you voiced your objections and they were ignored. That is the definition of rape, and no justifications he puts forth will change that definition."

Michael shrugged. "This is just one of those deep, dark family secrets that'll never see the light of day. The Gollands are a perfect and functional family. That's the image that must be maintained at all times. What happened to me doesn't matter."

"It does matter," he said softly.

He ignored Daniel's comment. "So, to get back to your original question about what caused the violence. She wanted to pretend like nothing bad had happened. I'm pretty effed up, I'll admit that, but having a relationship with my rapist??" He laughed. "I'm not that fucked up yet. That's totally sick."

Acid churned in his stomach as the memories pushed and prodded at that locked door in his mind. They wanted out, but he'd spent too many years and invested too much emotional energy keeping them at bay to just carelessly swing that door open. Michael was waiting for a response. He frantically searched for the right words. "Sounds like she's in denial that she did anything wrong," was all he could come up with.

Michael leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. The challenge in his arrogant smile was impossible to miss. "So, now that you know all the gory details of my pathetic life, how are you going to fix me?"

He wasn't going to sugar coat it, not for this guy. Lies would never earn his respect or his trust. "I can't fix you," he admitted. "All I can do is suggest some strategies to help you deal with your anger in more constructive ways than with your fists. The creative process can be very healing, if you give it a chance. And I can always listen when you need someone to talk to."

Michael rolled his eyes and grinned. "And here I was hoping you could give me the number of a good hit man." He broke eye contact and stretched out on the too-short sofa, using his arms for a pillow and with his feet dangling off the armrest on the other end, effectively ending their conversation.

Daniel suppressed a sigh. "I don't have a spare bedroom. Well, actually, I do, but there's no bed. I use it to paint in. I'll go get you a pillow and a blanket."

As he turned to leave the room, Michael spoke softly, "Thanks for trying."

 

**DANIEL'S LIVING ROOM**

 

 


	17. Damage Control

_Jack stopped what he was doing and watched him, eyes narrowed suspiciously, as Daniel shuffled to the stool and sat down. “What happened to your face?”_

_He breathed in the comforting smell of hay and horses. He hadn’t been in the barn a full minute, but felt better already. “I got in a fight at school,” he answered. “I’m suspended for nine days, but mom said I could still come and help with the horses.”_

_Jack nodded. “That’s good, but why were you fighting?”_

_He’d lied to the principal, saying it was a disagreement on the basketball court over a bad call. He’d repeated the same lie to his parents when he’d gotten home and handed them the suspension letter. He was scared to tell the truth and so tired of lying, both at the same time. But something told him Jack wouldn’t judge him._ _“They called me a faggot and a cock-sucking queer. Then one of them said I probably suck my own dad’s dick, so I punched him.”_

_Jack’s eyebrows shot up his forehead, but he nodded his approval. “Good for you. And God, please tell me you broke something.”_

_“I felt a crunch, and there was a lot of blood, so yeah, I think I might have broken his nose,” he answered, smirking. “But his friends managed to get in a few punches of their own before the principal came.”_

_Jack grinned and gave him a thumbs-up. It felt good to finally tell someone what he was going through, to let it out and put it on someone else’s plate for a change._

_“Does this happen a lot?” Jack asked softly._

_He nodded. School was hell. The bullies never let up. People said that standing up to them, beating the shit out of them one good time, would stop them, but that had never worked for him. He knew the boy he’d hit would be back for more after their suspensions were over._

_“Daniel, can I ask you a very personal question? And you can refuse to answer, that’s okay. I won’t get mad if you don’t want to tell me.”_

_He had a feeling he knew what the question was going to be. Would he be able to answer it? Would he actually be able to say the words…out loud?_

_“Are you homosexual?” Jack asked, his voice gentle and free of any judgments. “That means you’re attracted to boys—“_

_“I know what it means,” he interrupted._

_“Are you?”_

_He didn’t even need to think about it. He’d known he was different since elementary school. He’d never been interested in pulling girls’ ponytails or looking down their shirts, like his friends had. He’d always been way more interested in the boys who were doing the pulling and looking._

_“Yes,” he answered, and that word came out a lot easier than he expected it would. And with the truth came a weird kind of relief. Someone else besides him finally knew the truth. He wasn’t alone with the hurt of it anymore._ _Jack stared at him for way longer than was comfortable. He started to feel like maybe he should get up and check on Apache’s abscess, see if it needed another poultice. He decided that was what he’d do, stood up, and was immediately stopped by Jack’s hand on his arm._

_“Wait,” Jack said, gently tugging him back down to the stool. “Is this...I mean…do you like boys because of what I did to you?”_

_The question shocked him, and was probably the stupidest thing he’d ever heard an adult say. The idea that what had happened had caused him to like boys was just plain dumb. “No. I’ve always been this way. I remember feeling different way back in elementary school, even before. That had nothing to do with it.”_

_Jack reached out a lone finger and gently touched the puffy bruise at the crest of his cheek. “So much violence in your young life,” he commented softly. “And I was part of that violence. I deeply regret that, and I promise I will never hurt you again.”_

_He'd forgiven him for that a long time ago, and Jack had been nothing but kind to him ever since, teaching him all about horses and just being his friend. When Jack promised he'd never hurt him again, he believed him._

 

He came out of the dream slow and easy, just drifting upward, then uneventfully opening his eyes. He blinked in the darkness, not because he was trying to see the shadowy corners of his room like he usually did when he awoke from one of his nightmares, but because he was shocked at how calm he felt. No panic. No frantically searching the darkness for his childhood demons. No sliding to the floor and crying like a baby. Just peace and a strange sense of serenity.

Because of what Michael had confided in him, he’d fully expected to spend the rest of his night stumbling through his vast repertoire of nightmares, but it turned out his subconscious mind was into a new kind of torture: tormenting him with his pleasant memories instead of his most painful ones. He was completely surprised to have dreamed about the one moment with Jack that had meant the most to him. Despite everything weird and bad that had come afterward, that day in the barn, in which he’d admitted to another human being he was gay, was one of the happiest of his life. And the person on the receiving end of the news had been understanding and supportive. He’d never expected that, and he’d never forget how kind Jack was to him that day.

He knew from experience that if he spent too much time dwelling on the good parts of his childhood, the bad memories would get jealous of the attention and push their way back into the conversation. So, he turned them all off, rolled over and drifted back to sleep.

* * *

 

Michael awoke in a state of physical discomfort and emotional disorientation. The room was dim, its shadows unfamiliar to him until his wakening brain reminded him he was sacked out on Daniel’s cheap, too-short sofa. He'd slept more comfortably on a pile of hay in Claire’s stall than on this lumpy pile of polyester shit shamelessly masquerading as living room furniture. He stretched, and despite the stiffness in his back, he felt surprisingly refreshed. How long had it been since he’d woken from a night free from dreams? Maybe there was something to all that psychobabble that claimed therapy was good for the soul. He’d dumped the cesspool that was his life right into Daniel’s lap and had walked away without a care. He’d slept like a baby. He wondered if Daniel had done the same, or if he’d spent the night reviewing all his notes from Psychology class and drawing up a therapy plan for his fucked up friend.

 _You’re nothing but a sentimental idiot. You’ve already lost what little power you had over him. You might as well just bend over and let him fuck you in the ass. He’s going to use all that shit against you. You **know** he is. You would do the same to him in a heartbeat. _ That thought was the mental slap to the face that he needed. He shook his head, silently cursing himself for being so stupid, for exposing himself that way, for giving Daniel something to hold over his head. What a fucking idiot he was. So he’d had a good dream-free night’s sleep. So what? Was he really so desperate for someone to like him, to understand him, that he’d just blab the disgusting details of his life to anyone?? The vandalism of GEM’s building was nothing compared to what Daniel now had on him. He’d lost the advantage. Time to move on to damage control.

His bladder forced him from the sofa and to the bathroom. After quietly taking care of business, he decided to do a bit of exploring now that the house was starting to lighten with the coming sunrise. The door at the end of the hall was ajar. He gently pushed it open just enough so that he could see in without being seen. He could only assume it was Daniel’s bedroom, but he was only basing that assumption on the fact that a dark mass of hair was sticking out of the top of a mummy-looking mass rolled up in a sheet. It was breathing, so it was safe to assume it was alive. The rest of the room resembled anything but a bedroom. It looked like someone’s junky attic. There were books and what looked like his art stuff sitting everywhere, even in the floor. _How does he live like this??_

He backed out of the room and headed for the spare bedroom, the one Daniel had said he used as a make-shift studio. He pushed the door open, and a completely different Daniel Hart was revealed. The space was immaculate and clean. Two covered easels sat in the middle of the room with a stool nearby, a professional light stood in the corner, and neat shelves housed his paints and other supplies. The room was large, light and airy, so different from the wood décor in the rest of the house. One huge bay window took up almost the entire east-facing wall. The sky was lightening; sunrise was imminent. The view sucked, but he enjoyed it anyway. With the sunrise over, he turned his attention to the two easels in the middle of the room. The white drapes that covered them might as well have been a neon sign inviting passers-by to take a look. He was so curious to see what lay beneath those cloths and felt no guilt as he slid the first one off.

It was his portrait for his office, but who was that man?? Daniel's artist eye obviously saw someone entirely different from the man he saw in the mirror every morning. He actually looked like a respected officer of the company, which he would never be. Where were the stark lines of his cheekbones that Daniel was always going on about? Where were those deep shadows that 'defined the bone structure of his face'? The person on the canvas was him, but at the same time, it _wasn't_ him. He looked too...innocuous. He wasn't sure he liked it, but he'd hold up his end of the bargain. He'd pay Daniel's fee, hang it in his office and hope it irked the fuck out of his father. If it accomplished that much, it would be worth the money.

He turned to the second easel and pulled off the cover. The shock of it hit him full force. The image on the canvas was everything the other one wasn't. It looked as if Daniel had peered into his soul and painted what he'd seen. The deep shadows were there, the sharpness of his cheekbones, the hard set of his jaw. His eyes were a clear, icy blue, his gaze piercing. There was anger in that face, years of pent-up rage in those cold eyes. So, this was the man everyone saw when they looked at Michael Golland. It was definitely the man he saw in the mirror every morning. It was unsettling that Daniel knew him so well, but despite that, he smiled. The painting was perfect and he absolutely loved it.

He replaced the cloths on both canvases, then swept his eyes over the room one last time. A pile of drawing tablets, similar to the one that had lain on the coffee table during their talk, was stacked neatly against the wall. He couldn't resist. He grabbed the one on top, precariously perched his ass on the edge of the stool and flipped it open: page after page after page of his face. Him smiling. Frowning. Laughing. One drawing with his I'm-Being-a-Total-Dick expression. Another with his Get-Your-Lame-Ass-the-Fuck-Out-of-My-World expression. One of just his eyes. Just his nose. Just his cheekbones. His mouth.  _Jesus. The man is obsessed with you._ He didn't know whether he was supposed to be flattered, offended or freaked out. He'd never been the center of anyone's attention before, at least not like this. He'd spent his whole life avoiding attention, from his father, from the whores who wanted to latch onto his gravy train, and just from people in general. How was he supposed to react to knowing his face, and maybe even his entire life for all he knew, was the obsession of another person? He shut the tablet and returned it to the stack, forcing the whole thing from his mind.

On to the kitchen. He was hungry, in dire need of caffeine, and also curious to discover if Daniel's cooking space was as cluttered as his bedroom.

* * *

 

Daniel awoke to the smell of coffee. The only thing he was sure of after visiting Michael's house was that he was a certified neat freak. He grinned at the thought of Michael puttering around in his cluttered kitchen, trying to find stuff.  He rummaged a pair of sweat pants from the floor, threw on an old t-shirt, and ambled to the bathroom to wake himself up. _What fucking time is it??_ The sun was obviously up, but it felt like the ass-crack of dawn to him. He instinctively knew he was awake way too early for a Sunday morning.

By the time he emerged from the bathroom, he was halfway human. The aroma of coffee drew him down the hall, through the living room and into the kitchen, where Michael sat at his table looking more delicious than the food spread out in front of him. _Holy fuck, that stubble!_ He'd never seen Michael anything other than clean-shaven. His five o'clock shadow was sexy as hell.

"I couldn't find anything decent to fix for breakfast, and I refuse to drink liquid shit as a substitute for coffee," Michael said, getting his morning snob on. "So, I ordered out and had it all delivered."

If Michael was trying to piss him off, it wasn't working. He hadn't been to the grocery store lately, and he knew his coffee wasn't ground from the most expensive beans on the tree. He offered his thanks, poured himself a cup of coffee, then sat down across from Michael to enjoy the view. There were scrambled eggs, fruit, buttered croissants and jams, not exactly the gourmet breakfast he'd expected with Michael doing the ordering, but he wasn't going to complain. He didn't even want to think about how much Michael had had to fork out to get a restaurant to deliver, and on a Sunday morning, no less. They ate in companionable silence until his cup runneth dry. He went to the counter for a refill, scratching an itch on his side as he went, and inadvertently exposing a small portion of his body to a guy with an annoying eye for detail.

"You have tattoos??" Michael asked.

He let the question hang in the air as he poured himself another cup of the amazing coffee. He turned to face Michael and smirked. "No, I don't have tattoos." He waited a beat, pleased to see the puzzled look on Michael's face. "I have body art, man. _Body art_. Get it right."

"I want to see."

Four simple words had his heart racing like he'd run a marathon. Michael was studying him, waiting patiently for him to strip off his shirt, but he was too busy trying not to hyperventilate to actually do it.

Michael chuckled. "I'm not going to fire you for having tattoos. As long as they're hidden, GEM doesn't care."

"It's body art," he repeated weakly. He swallowed nervously and sat his cup on the counter. He rolled his t-shirt over his head, leaving it dangling from one hand, exposing his chest to his boss, his friend, and a man he'd kill to go to bed with. Having those gorgeous eyes on his half-naked body was a dream come true, but it was also unnerving as hell. He pointed to the tribal design covering nearly all of his left breast and the top part of his abdomen. "This was my first one. It took me several months to design it. Got it done when I was in college."

He followed Michael's gaze as it traveled so slowly over every inch of ink on his skin. He prayed his cock would behave under the scrutiny of those eyes. Then he turned around and displayed his back, imagining Michael's eyes traveling down the length of the design that started on his shoulder and ended beneath the waistband of his sweats.

"I designed this one, too, and got the ink two years ago."

"How far down does it go?"

"It ends on my ass," he answered, and just the thought of Michael staring at his ass, even though the design was hidden beneath his sweatpants, was enough to make his cock roll out of bed. He quickly pulled his t-shirt over his head and yanked it down before turning back around. He grabbed his coffee and hustled to the table, hoping Michael wouldn't see the effect his gaze had on his body.

"You're very talented, and the portraits turned out very well, especially the dark one. The other one is sort of bland, but the one with all the shadows and heavy brush strokes, I love that one."

He had a sudden 'oh shit' moment when he realized Michael had been in his studio, unaccompanied. How much had he seen? He frantically tried to remember where he'd left that tablet filled with the erotic drawings of Michael's body, or at least Michael's body as he imagined it in his daydreams. _Fuck. I'm toast if he found those!_ "Official portraits aren't supposed to push artistic boundaries. They're generally very conservative and....yeah...bland is a good word for it. That was intentional," he explained. "The other one is more introspective, more artistic, more..." His filter stopped the word from coming out, but Michael was one step ahead of him.

"Truthful?" Michael suggested. "The bland one is the idealistic me, and the dark one is the _real_ me. How the world sees me. How _you_ see me."

He nodded.

Michael grinned crookedly. "So, I'm a dick."

When a person could clearly see their own faults and laugh at them, that was considered a positive trait in the psychology world. Daniel chuckled. "Yes, you are." _But I like you for some fucked-up reason._

The grin vanished in an instant. Michael relaxed back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. He was beginning to learn Michael's numerous defense mechanisms and this pose was one of them. He only had seconds to brace himself for whatever was coming.

"I'm your supervisor. My name stamp is on your paycheck. I maintain your personnel records. If any future employers call GEM for a reference on you, I'll be the one they talk to. So, if you try to use anything I confided to you last night against me in any way, I will ruin you. You'll never work in your field again."

His first reaction was to calmly tell Michael to go fuck his asshole ungrateful self, just like he'd done at the Christmas party, but he bit back his anger at the implication that he was unprofessional, that'd he'd actually use confidential information in such an unethical way. He forced himself to remember that Michael probably felt very vulnerable after spilling his guts about something so personal, and people who got off on controlling others thoroughly disliked feeling vulnerable. This was Michael Golland in damage control mode.

"I really should throw your ass out of here for that, but I'm not going to," he said calmly. "I understand how much strength and courage it took for you to open up to me last night, and if I ever used anything you told me in confidence to hurt you, I'd deserve to be ruined. But, I would never do that to you, to anyone. That's not how I roll, professionally or with my friends." He extended his hand across the table. "You can trust me, Michael."

He was consulting his mental balance sheet again, weighing the pros and cons of trusting him. It really was interesting to watch Michael Golland make a decision. He wondered if the man realized how transparent he was to anyone who paid more than five minutes attention to him.

Michael took his hand and shook, his grasp firm and strong. "I'll trust you to keep my secrets as closely as you keep your own."

He froze beneath Michael's intent gaze, his heart pounding, his mouth going dry. How did he know he had secrets?? He knew he'd never let anything slip in their conversations; his secrets were safely locked away in the past where they belonged. They no longer tormented him, well, except in his dreams, but he had that under control. His art was his therapy. It calmed him, kept him centered and focused on what was really important: his career. He was doing fine now. So, how did Michael know?  _He knows because he's a perceptive, detail-oriented son of a bitch who doesn't miss a thing. You need to be more careful._

Daniel returned the shake and nodded, not sure what to say. He settled on the 'less is more' approach. "Deal."

There was no missing the small gleam of victory in Michael's eyes, but his gloating lasted only a couple of seconds. He rose from the table and began cleaning up breakfast. He worked alongside him in silence, pondering this new dynamic in their relationship. Everything was about power and control with Michael, and it had been since the first moment they'd met. It was a good thing Michael was straight, because he didn't know if he had the energy to be in an intimate relationship with the guy. It would be emotionally exhausting for anyone stupid enough to attempt it. The man was ungodly beautiful and sexy as fuck, but he had 'Warning: High Maintenance' written all over him.

When everything was cleaned up and as neat as it was going to get, Michael thanked him for the use of his sofa. The sentiment was surprisingly heartfelt considering the guy had just threatened to ruin his life ten minutes ago.

"Time to face the music," he said stoically.

"Your father?"

He nodded.

Daniel walked him to the front door, wishing there was something he could do to ease his way. What advice should he give him? He quickly ran through the strategies for dealing with anger in high stress situations. Michael's hand was on the doorknob. If he was going to say something, he needed to do it fast. "Don't let him hit you," was what came out. Not exactly an anger management strategy, but he couldn't get those bruises on Michael's face out of his mind.

Michael chuckled softly. "I'll be sure to do that."

He grabbed Michael's arm, forcing him to stop and look at him. "I'm serious, Michael. Do not, under any circumstances, allow him to hit you again."

He pulled his arm away. "And what if he does? Then what?" he asked, smirking arrogantly.

The boy who'd been bullied his entire life was dying to tell him to just knock the fucker out, just once, just to show his father the abuse was over. Done. Finished. But the therapist inside him knew that was the wrong answer. Violence wasn't the universal problem-solver many people claimed it was. It sometimes worked, but not always, and especially in situations where the abuse had been ongoing for years.

"You think I should hit him back?" Michael asked, challenging him, forcing him to take a stance.

"Have you?"

Michael laughed. "No, and I never will."

He'd never seen anyone display such a cavalier attitude in the face of abuse. It was as if Michael didn't even care about his own physical safety. "Why not??" he demanded, the question bursting out of his mouth before he could stop it.

Michael's good humor abruptly vanished; his gaze turned hard. "If I hit him once, I wouldn't be able to stop." A car stopped at the curb, horn blowing. "My driver's here."

And then he was gone.

 

**DANIEL'S CHEST INK**

 


	18. Confrontation

Michael walked in his front door to find his father waiting. He wasn't at all surprised his driver had ratted him out. In fact, he'd expected it and would have been hugely disappointed if his arrival home had gone unnoticed.  Daniel's words kept worming their way into his thoughts. _Have you had an honest conversation about this with him? Don't let him hit you. Do not, under any circumstances, let him hit you again._ It was nice to know there was one person in this city who cared enough to get involved in his train wreck of a life—involved enough to give him advice. Not that he was going to take it, but still, it was a new and strange feeling for him to have someone on his side.

His father rose from the sofa. He looked calm, but Michael knew that look was deceptive. He was most likely pissed, disappointed, regretting having a son, blah, blah, blah. He'd heard it all before, and wondered if his father had managed to conjure up any new insults to tear him down with. The ones he had were getting a little stale.

"I am fucking tired of fixing your fuck-ups."

He'd heard that one before, too.

"I'd love to wipe that smirk off your face, but I'm beginning to think you like violence; it obviously has no effect on you. It never has. My attempts to educate you, to _discipline_ you have all failed. The way you treat those women in your penthouse? I don't think anyone can fix what's wrong with you."

Michael kept silent. What was there to say in his defense? He _did_ enjoy violence when he was employing it against one of his father's whores. No denying that. And despite what Daniel thought, no therapy in the world would ever be able to fix him. He and his father agreed on two things, at least.

"Deidra has been nothing but kind to you, and you repay her by beating her face to a pulp??"

Nothing but kind?! His temper ignited, his hands took on a life of their own, clenching into fists, itching to bridge the distance between him and his father and stop the lies coming out of his mouth. Daniel's face swam into his mind, and that was enough to bring him back. He forced his hands open, forced them to relax, to hang loosely at his side. _You are not going to push my buttons._  "She was in my house without permission," he said calmly. "Tell her to stay away from me and we'll have no further problems."

"I don't think so. You're not only going to pay Deidra's medical bills, but you're also going to pay her a visit _in person_ and apologize profusely for your immature behavior. If you refuse to do that, then the wheels of justice will turn without my intervention. Your spoiled rotten ass can sit in jail for a year for all I care."

 _'Have you had an honest conversation about this with him?'_ Daniel's words stirred an unfamiliar emotion in him: courage. "Fine. Let it go to court, and when they ask me why I beat the hell out of her, I'm going to tell them the truth: because you arranged for her to rape me when I was only thirteen on the pretext of educating me about sex. Because of that physical violation,—"

"You lying piece of shit!!"  The blow came so hard and quick he didn't have time to prepare. A stabbing pain, then blood running into his mouth. He ignored the pain, wiped his mouth with his forearm and stood his ground.

"I am not lying," he said between gritted teeth. "I voiced my objections, I screamed them. I said no repeatedly. There was no way you could have missed that! You purposely ignored it!"

His father's face flushed red with fury. "You were hard as granite and you came! That's called getting laid!"

Michael's temper ignited and this time he chose to let it burn. "I was raped!! And you stood there and watched it!!"

His aim went high, smashing into Michael's temple. The room flickered, his head swam, but he was too angry to fall. He shook it out and kept his feet.  "Go ahead, hit me again!" He taunted him, grinning, gesturing at his own face. "Come on, Daddy! Keep hitting me! Come on!! You think that's going to fix this?? _Do it!!"_

Apparently his son begging for a beating was enough to throw him completely off balance. He backed off. Michael fought the overwhelming urge to gloat over his victory, keeping his expression closed and controlled.

"No one in that courtroom is going to believe a teenage boy would refuse getting fucked by a beautiful woman!" his father shouted, sneering. "They'll laugh your stupid ass out of there!"

"Maybe you're right," he snapped. "But in the process of trying to convince them, I'm going to totally destroy this family's pristine reputation. I'll air every single piece of our dirty laundry, then let your adoring public decide whether they believe it or not!"

They were at a standoff, their angry, silent stares a contest of wills that had no precedent in Michael's memory. He'd never stood up to his father before, not like this. He had no idea how that was going to go over.  Suddenly, his father laughed, and that was not what he'd expected. When his laughter ran its course, he surprised Michael once again by sitting back down on the sofa, completely toppling the balance of power in the room. Michael swiped at the blood on his face, and sat down in a chair opposite him.

"Where were you last night?" his father asked, changing the subject, his voice suspiciously calm again.

"With a friend," he answered.

Raised eyebrows and a snicker. "You have friends?"

 _Friend. Singular._ But he wasn't about to correct him. Instead, he nodded.

"Who are these...friends?"

"None of your business."

"Everything in this family is my business."

"Not my personal life. That belongs to me," he insisted. "And another thing. If you ever hit me again, I'm going to hit you back. I'm almost thirty years younger than you, and stronger. I _will_ hurt you." He couldn't believe he'd actually said that out loud. He held his breath, waiting for his father's reaction. There was no way it was going to be good.

His father studied him, eyes narrowed suspiciously. Then he laughed softly, and it wasn't a pleasant sound. "Your friends must have loaned you a pair last night. Are you actually threatening me, Michael?"

His father had never reacted well to disobedience, to blatant disrespect. He had to tread lightly or risk losing everything. "No," he answered, careful to keep his tone respectful. "All I want is for you to keep Deidra away from me. That's all. If you do that one thing for me, then I'll keep our dirty laundry secret... _for you_. And the part about hitting me? That wasn't a threat. It was a promise."

The laughter, the smirking, it was all an elaborate sham. He knew from years of experience not to trust his father's smile. He was livid. His eyes were stone cold rage as they stared him down, silently trying to force him to give ground and slink away in humiliating defeat, as had happened in the past too many times to count. Michael held his angry gaze, even as his heart threatened to explode, it was beating so fast.

"Done," his father said finally, standing up to leave. "But don't think you've won."

* * *

  
“I don’t think I’m going to be able to sit down for a week.”

Apparently he hadn’t hit her hard enough. He’d have to remedy that next time.

“That was a compliment, Michael,” she said, smiling at him while he was wishing she’d just shut the hell up. Why did they always want to talk afterwards??

“You were soooo deliciously brutal tonight. Mmmmm…”

If she was waiting for a ‘thank you’, she was going to have a long wait. Where the fuck was his driver??

“That stockade was a great investment. I loved how you—“

“Shut up!” he snapped, interrupting her incessant bullshit. “I didn’t bring you here to have a conversation, so shut up!!”

Anne was one of the few whores strong enough to handle him when he was at his cruelest. After the confrontation with his father, he’d been in no mood to be soft, so he’d called Anne and she’d dropped everything to be with him, as he’d known she would. She was willowy and delicate—a stranger might think her weak—but she was a mean little bitch who knew exactly how to please him. One minute she'd be pleasantly obedient, then the next she would suddenly turn sullen for no reason at all. She’d taunt him, deride him and push him to hit her harder, to punish her to the outermost boundaries of her tolerance. Her hair was long, dark and flowing down her back, but it was a wonder she had any left after tonight. He’d twisted it tightly around and around his fist and had pulled until she’d screamed and begged him to stop. She hadn’t meant it, of course; she loved pain. His climax had come hard and fast, with her screams filling his mind, his senses. She was worth every bit of his time he gave her, but he was going to have to rethink their relationship if she didn’t shut up with the kitchen pillow talk.

She leaned against the table and silently studied him. What was it with people and their stupid stares? Daniel, his father, and now this whore—everyone always trying to control him, to manipulate him, trying to pin him down and make him squirm beneath their gaze.  “Do I have something between my teeth?” he asked snidely.

“Who is Daniel?” she asked softly.

Panic stole his breath, its talons gripping his heart in a tight, angry fist. How did she know about Daniel? Had he accidentally spoken his name??  “I don’t know anyone named Daniel,” he answered calmly, despite the panic that was threatening to completely trash his central nervous system. His heart was racing, his palms slicked with fear, but he kept it together. _Never let them see you sweat._

“You say a person’s name when you cum, they mean something to you. Who is he?”

 _Fuck._ He frantically searched for a way to shut her up, something he could use against her to keep her silent. Why was he panicking?? It was patently obvious. “I don’t think you want the parents of those little third graders to know that their child’s teacher likes to be tied up and beaten on the weekends. Do you?”

She sighed. Not the reaction he was hoping for. She crossed the short distance between them and reached out, like she was going lay a hand against his chest or his arm.

“Don’t touch me,” he said between clenched teeth.

She dropped her hand and sighed again. “Please don’t threaten me,” she said softly. “You don’t need to do that. I’m not going to say anything to anyone. I adore you. Of all the men I do this with, I enjoy you the most. You’re the only one who isn’t afraid to push me to my limits. All the others, they think they’re the perfect dominants, but deep down inside, they can’t get past my being delicate. Oh, they hurt me, sure, but they don’t hurt me enough. Not like you. Every time I’m with you, you make me sublimely happy and just so thrilled to be alive. That's what life is all about: being alive and losing yourself in the joy of pleasure, whatever that pleasure is. I care about you, and more than anything I want to see you happy, fulfilled. If you want Daniel, whoever he is, and if he’s available, then you go after him. Do whatever you have to do to be with him. And if the feeling’s mutual, and he wants to be with you, too…?” She smiled and shook her head. “You cannot even imagine how much joy that will give you, how alive you will feel. Don’t deny yourself, even if you think people won’t approve or will condemn you for it. Please don’t.”

“You don’t understand,” he said bitterly. She hadn’t lived his life, walked in his shoes. She hadn’t been told since she was a kid that she was disgusting, perverted and sick, that she was a lost sinner, a tool of Satan, an abomination that God hated, that the _world_ hated. She didn’t know what it felt like to be completely "other" in everyone’s eyes, to be nothing, certainly nothing worthy of love or acceptance.

“Please don’t tell me this is a stupid guy ‘No Homo’ thing, because I reject that,” she said, her voice strong with conviction. “I totally reject that kind of close-minded thinking. Our sexuality is not this little round peg that we can just jam in a square hole and expect it to fit comfortably. I’m a female who loves men, but I also like being controlled in the bedroom. I like being hurt. You think my friends, family, co-workers, the people I go to church with would consider that normal, even though I’m straight?? Hell no. To them I’d be a weirdo, disgusting, sick, maybe even mentally ill. I like pain, so there must be something wrong with me, they’d think. But there isn’t anything wrong with me. This is just what I like. This is my round peg and, by god, I’m making the conscious decision to put that damned peg in a round hole where it fits me perfectly and makes me happy. So, I do understand.”

Her words of acceptance and tolerance were totally foreign to him, as was her confession to caring for him. He’d never once considered that he was making another person happy by abusing them. Abuse was cruelty, the absence of love. His father had taught him that. Society preached that. Abuse wasn’t ‘sublime happiness’ and joy. It was violent and sick, wasn’t it? He was broken, damaged beyond repair, wasn’t he??

There was no way he could ever have Daniel; only in his fantasies was that possible. He was a rich, straight, white male; he was acceptable, normal. He'd spent his whole life building that facade. He'd be stupid to pull out the one brick guaranteed to bring the whole thing down. He’d lose everything if he listened to that dreamtastic round peg/round hole nonsense of hers. _Not if you plan it carefully, Michael._ _You’re smart enough to get what you want and protect your ass while doing it. You have those files tucked safely away. You could do it, if you have the balls to._

She chuckled softly. “You’re frowning. So either you don’t believe a word I’ve said, or I’ve confused the hell out of you. All I ask is that you think about it. Think about your life. The days are ticking away for all of us. Our time here is so limited. How much of it are you willing to waste being unhappy?”

His phone vibrated on the counter. “The driver’s here,” he said.

She smiled sadly. “Thank you. I hope you take some time to really think about what I said.”

He nodded. He would.

 

 **ANNE MARIE PARRIS**  (played by Emmy Rossum)

 

 


	19. Confession and Penance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A HUGE thank you has to go out to a very wonderful and talented fandom friend: ClaireBamboozle. Without her invaluable help, the first part of this chapter would never have made it out of my files. I have absolutely no knowledge of Catholic practices and her advice (and pre-reading) saved my life with this one.

He paused on the sidewalk, taking a moment to study the intricate facade of the building. To a tourist, the church would be an architectural marvel, a shining modern masterpiece of classical design with a Spanish twist, standing firm amid the gently swaying palm trees. The ornate bell tower seemed to soar into the heavens, the cross at its pinnacle promising hope, sanctity and love to all who entered. But Michael wasn’t fooled, nor was he in awe of the fancy architecture. He wasn't some wide-eyed visitor from a backwater hick town come to the big city to see how the fabulously wealthy worshiped. He wasn’t interested in sneaking a peek up God's robes while no one else was looking. Nor was he the Prodigal Son returning home to seek redemption. He was a broken survivor of this place, rejected by all that was supposedly holy.

To him, the church was a symbol of Hell on earth, a monolith from his childhood, looming large against the LA skyline, casting its oppressive shadow across his present and his past. He hadn’t been inside those walls in over a decade, not since his mother’s funeral mass. He remembered taking all the ritual bullshit he could before stalking out in the middle of the liturgy and shocking everyone in attendance with his disrespect. But it had been God he’d been disrespecting, not his mother. She’d been one of the good things in his life, along with Claire, and she’d been ripped away from him without warning. God hadn’t lifted a damned finger to prevent it, or to punish the person responsible. His relationship with God and religion had been permanently severed the day his mother had left the world. He hadn’t stepped foot across a church threshold since.

His appointment was for 10:00 AM and it was already ten minutes till. As much as he loathed lateness in others, he was tempted to loiter on the steps a while longer and be deliberately late. _Make him wait. Keep him off balance. Give him time to wonder why Michael Golland suddenly wants to see him after all these years. He’s got to know I’m not here to confess my sins, but he’ll have no idea why the meeting._ Unfortunately, he didn’t have the time to indulge his control fantasies. He had to be back at the office in time for lunch with Daniel.

Jogging up the seven steps to the main doorway, a childhood rhyme dogged his steps:

_One, two, three, four, five, six, seven._

_All good children go to heaven._

He snorted bitterly. He didn't believe in Heaven anymore—or Hell either, for that matter—not in the traditional sense. Hell wasn’t demons with horns and pitchforks spit-roasting sinners over burning coals. Hell was on Earth. Hell was this life he was living.

The huge, carved oak doors were opened wide, inviting. Stepping through the doorway transported him back through the decades. His shadow may not have fallen on the polished marble floor in years, but the place hadn't changed a bit: offertory envelopes and church notices, tales of good works and sacrifice for the benefit of the poor and needy.

His hand hovered over the stoup. _To dip or not to dip? That is the question._ He smirked briefly at his own wit, then wiped his face clean of expression. It was the years of methodical brainwashing that made him put the tip of his middle finger into the bowl of holy water and bless himself. The simple act once held meaning for him, but all it meant now was that he had three tiny damp spots on his suit.

His steps echoed softly in the cavernous space as he moved from the entrance and along the main aisle. He glanced up at the Stations of the Cross fastened high on the pillars; the stages of Christ's torment were his companion as he made his way toward the elaborately carved centerpiece of the church. The smells of the past filled his senses: recently burned incense, musty paper, candles and furniture polish. He’d never liked the miasma of scents, but today it repulsed him.

Almost at the altar, he paused and looked around. One solitary woman was arranging fresh flowers around feet of the statue of Our Lady, palms opened out, her benevolent, plaster gaze watching over him. Father Sebastian was nowhere to be seen. He supposed he could slide into the pews and play the part of the devout for a few minutes, but he was damned if he was going to bow his head in prayer. Not him. Never again.

As he waited, he thought about Anne and their conversation the night before. Her words had stayed with him long after she’d left. He’d lain awake half the night thinking about “sublime happiness”, trying to imagine what that would feel like. _Our time here is so limited. How much of it are you willing to waste being unhappy?_ In the stillness of pre-dawn, he’d decided he was tired of being miserable. He wanted to experience the things Anne had spoken of. For the first time in years, he yearned to make a connection with another human being, and that human being was Daniel Hart.

“Michael.”  Father Sebastian called to him as he entered through a small doorway. Nothing had changed since his mother’s funeral: the same tall, confident poise, the same purposeful, grandiose strides. His voice seemed unnervingly loud in this place of solemn contemplation. Michael acknowledged his greeting with a slight nod, then stood and reluctantly accepted the Father’s handshake. Sebastian frowned as his eyes swept over his face, obviously noticing the bruises—they weren’t hard to miss—but apparently deciding to ignore them.

“I was surprised to hear from you. Thinking of returning to the fold?” There was a bit of gray starting to make its way into his thick black hair, but other than that, Sebastian looked the same. His stark, angular face had hardly changed, and Michael should know. He’d memorized every wrinkle around that man’s eyes, every flaw in his complexion, every golden fleck in his green irises. His smile was friendly enough, but there was suspicious curiosity in his eyes.

“Hardly,” he answered. “But do we have to have this conversation here?” His eyes flickered over to the woman who had moved on from arranging flowers, and who was now busy cleaning the backs of the pews with a fluffy yellow duster.

“I’m sure you remember where the confessional is. Just give me a minute to prepare and I'll—”

“No. Not there,” he said, cutting him off. “I prefer this to be done face-to-face.”

Sebastian’s brows lifted slightly. He knew asking for a face-to-face confession was an unusual request—most people wanted anonymity, preferring to hide their repugnant shame and guilt behind the security of an opaque screen—but he was too angry to care about such nonsense.

“The vestry?” Sebastian asked.

He nodded. That would work. More privacy in case his temper got out of hand. The priest led the way, threading them back around the pews and through the door he'd entered from.  The room was small and sparsely furnished. Vestments and robes hung from a row of pegs, and a brass candle snuffer was propped against the door jamb. Sebastian took a seat at the small wooden table and motioned for him to sit at an angle, probably trying to make it feel less like an interview. Over his shoulder was a damaged statue of some saint or other, the only witness who would hear their words. Sebastian took a deep breath, made the sign of the cross, then laid his hands out flat on the surface of the table, preparing to hear Michael’s confession, waiting for him to begin the ritual.

He crossed himself. “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned,” he said, looking directly in the man’s eyes. “It’s been...” He glanced away, frowning, his mind quickly trying to calculate how long it had been since he’d said those words.

“Forever?” Sebastian offered with a deadpan expression.

 _Ha, ha. Funny._  His mouth twitched into a brief smile. “Thank you, Father. I’m afraid that the date of my last confession is one memory from this place I’ve managed to successfully forget.” He ignored the disapproval in Sebastian’s face and continued. “It’s been... _forever_...since my last confession.

“Now my sins...yes, well.” He chuckled softly. “I hope you aren’t in a hurry. I disrespected my father yesterday, but he disrespected me first when he plowed his fist into my face,  _twice._ But the disrespect started back when I was thirteen and he arranged for an older woman to rape me, to try and fuck me straight. No, actually it started when I was twelve, when _you_ and my father decided I needed therapy to fix me. Anyway, because of this attempt by you, this church, God, and my father, to turn me into something I wasn’t, I now despise women. Oh, but I fornicate with them at least twice a week, because I have to keep up appearances. We can’t have anyone thinking that Michael Golland, son of the pious and generous Paul Golland, Sr., might like men. I also enjoy tying women up and whipping them before I allow them to suck my—“

“Michael, stop!”

The blood was roaring in his ears. He wasn’t about to stop; he was on a fucking roll. Sebastian was going to listen to his damned confession if he had to pin him against the wall and _make_ him listen. “You can’t ask me to stop. I’m in the middle of confessing and I’m not finished.”

“I’m not sensing any contrition in your words, only anger. This is not a good confession, Michael, and you know it.” His eyes narrowed into suspicious slits. “Why are you really here?”

The Father was right. He was more concerned with righting a wrong than in confessing his sins. “Okay. I’m here to let you know that Redemption House is a scam, and you should sever your relationship with that organization. And I can prove it’s a scam, because when I walked out those doors for the last time at seventeen, I was assured by your therapists that I was cured.”

Redemption House hadn’t cured him of anything. All they’d done was break him into little pieces, then they’d try to fit them back together so he’d be presentable to the world. The only problem was that the pieces hadn’t fit exactly right after that; there were a hell of a lot of cracks, and the effort he’d had to expend to just to hold his shit together all these years had taken more emotional energy than anyone should expect from a human being.  “You lied to me. The church lied to me. God lied to me! I’m not cured of anything! All your therapies, the praying, the fasting, the drugs, none of it worked!”

Sebastian steepled his fingers against his lips and studied him. Several tense moments of silence passed before he finally spoke. “You haven’t been here since your mother died, but your father has told me that you’ve dealt with your urges quite well during that time. So, what has changed in your life to suddenly cause all this anger to rise to the surface?”

 _What has changed?? Is it not enough that I’ve lived a lie for fourteen years??_ But he didn’t say that out loud. Living a lie meant nothing to the church, as long as you publicly blended in and followed along in lockstep to everything they said. “A man. That’s what’s changed. He forced himself into my life, and I’ve tried everything to force him back out of it. I’ve been rude to him, put him down, but he’s still there. For some inexplicable reason, he wants to be my friend.”

“Is he a homosexual?” Sebastian asked, getting right to the point.

“Yes. He’s openly gay, but he hasn’t done or said anything inappropriate with me.” _Except run his warm, coffee-and-cream gaze over my face and body every single time we meet._ “Do you know how many friends I have, Sebastian? None. But I have one now. He’s an artist. I respect his talent, his ambition, his honesty. We have things in common, and we have long, interesting conversations over lunch every day. But right now, we’re just friends. That’s all.”

“And you want more?”

“I think...” He hesitated at first, but then decided there was no use in lying. “Yes.”

Sebastian sighed. “We had this discussion at Redemption House, if you recall. But in case you don’t remember the details, it is the church’s stance that no one can 'cure' your homosexuality, Michael, because it’s not a disease. It is a _sin._ To become a child of God by grace you must reject all sin, and homosexual behaviour is one of those sins. The desires themselves are not sinful—only if you act upon them. Homosexual desire is something you have to overcome within yourself, with God’s help. But, if you’ve come to me for advice—“ He sighed. “—which I seriously doubt is the case—but if you have, then my advice is to immediately remove this man from your life. He is being used by Satan to tempt you into sinning even more than you already have. He is a test of your faith and the commitment you made at seventeen to live your life according to God’s plan. It is imperative you not give in to these desires.”

He fought not to laugh in the man’s face, and wondered what he’d been thinking in coming there. He didn’t know everything about Daniel yet, but he was pretty sure he wasn’t a tool of Satan. Daniel seemed to be a good person inside; he had to have the soul of a saint just to put up with his shit. And the best advice Sebastian had for him was to kick Daniel to the curb? The one good thing that had happened to him since his mother’s death and he was supposed to cut it out of his life like he was excising a cancerous tumor?? Anne would make a better priest than this guy. It was sad when a whore had a better understanding of love and acceptance than an ordained representative of God.

“You’re right. I didn’t come here for your advice. I just wanted you to know that all that nonsense you do at Redemption House is useless. None of it worked, and it did more damage to my life than if you’d just left me alone and done nothing. _That_ is my official testimony, if you want to include it in your next newsletter.”

Sebastian’s gaze softened. “It didn’t work because you seem to have turned your back on God. You can't expect a miracle if you've done nothing to deserve one. God loves you, Michael, but He cannot help you with this unless you first want help, and then you must ask for His help and truly mean it.”

He hadn’t come to hear the same tired lectures. He didn't want or need God's help; he’d done what he came to do.

"Might I suggest we start over?" Sebastian asked. Without waiting for a response, he continued. "With God's good grace, may you make a good confession."

He thought about just getting up and leaving, but unless he gave a true confession, Sebastian wouldn't be bound to keep their conversation confidential. The priest would talk—he and Paul were close friends—then his father would know that he had feelings for an artist named Daniel. Connecting the dots would take ten seconds and then Daniel would be on Paul Golland's radar even more than he already was. If he had to confess a few sins to protect Daniel, he would.

“I regret my anger of before,” he stated softly. "I would like to confess my sins."

Sebastian’s eyebrow arched in surprise, but he said nothing, and instead slipped into the role of compassionate priest as effortlessly as Michael slid on his socks every morning.

“I've had sex outside of marriage at least twice a week for years. I've been cruel to the women in my life, physically and emotionally abusing them. I’ve lied a lot. I’ve ruined quite a few people’s lives because of the decisions I've made at work. I am disrespectful to my father on a daily basis. I admit to having thoughts of hurting him, but I can't bring myself to actually do it. I’m greedy. I love money more than I do most people. I'm selfish and spoiled. I'm just an all-around bastard with most everyone I meet. I've said horrible things to people, and I know I've hurt their feelings. I regret that.” _Especially with Daniel._  He paused, meeting Sebastian’s gaze. “But I cannot confess the sin of homosexuality. It's true that I have felt desire for men many times in my life, but I have never acted upon those desires. I refuse to apologize for who I am, Father. I disagree with the church on this one issue. My being attracted to men is _not_ a sin; it's how I was born. God made me this way, and I don't want to spend my life apologizing for that. But, I am truly sorry for the other sins I mentioned, and will endeavor not to repeat those sins.”

Sebastian studied him, probably trying to decide upon the sincerity of his confession, and whether he deserved forgiveness. But what Sebastian would never know, no matter how long he studied him, was that he would do anything, say anything to protect Daniel from his father.

"Will you make an Act of Contrition?" Sebastian asked.

He nodded and recited the lines, surprised he could remember them word for word after all these years.

"You may not believe this now, but you will feel better for having made a good confession," Sebastian said. "Giving voice to one's sins eases the conscience, lightens the load upon one's shoulders. God, the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son, has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins. Through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from the sins for which you are sorry, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."

"Thanks be to God," he intoned, strangely relieved.

"Your penance is to do something nice for someone at least once a day. It's not that difficult, Michael, and it will make a huge difference in your life."

He could do that, and he'd start with Daniel.

* * *

 

Daniel glanced at his phone on the table. _Ten minutes late._ Michael was never late for lunch, or for anything. Trudy said he had an outside appointment, but wouldn’t tell him where. An accident? A shiver of fear raced across his skin, chill bumps rising in its wake. He pushed the thought of Michael lying hurt somewhere completely out of his mind. The asshole was probably just playing mind games with him, keeping him waiting, making sure he knew who was boss in this friendship. He decided he’d wait five more minutes and if he was a no-show, then screw him. He’d eat alone, down in his claustrophobic cubicle, and he’d love every minute of it. _Right…_

Another minute passed. He looked around the office, but there was absolutely nothing to occupy his bored mind. No family pictures. No interesting books. None of the weird artwork he knew Michael loved. Nothing. So, the shameless horn-dog in him decided to pass the time imagining what Michael was wearing. Which of his designer suits would be lucky enough to be draped over that luscious body today?  The gray linen that hugged his fine ass like a glove? The navy blue one? _Ugh._ He hoped it wasn’t the navy blue one. Those slacks were having a torrid love affair with Michael’s package; the bulge was like a magnet drawing his eyes downward. Every. Single. Time. Embarrassing, but that image had fueled quite a few earth-shattering hand jobs for him. He moved to underwear. Was it boxers or briefs? Strictly white or would any color do? Cotton or poly—

The door burst open and the room instantly changed. He felt him even before he turned to look. When Michael Golland entered a room, he filled it with his commanding presence. Michael's energy felt like a low-voltage electrical charge that sent tingles all over his skin.

“Sorry I’m late,” Michael said, his long, lean legs propelling him across the room in graceful strides. “Traffic. And I had an errand to run.”

He dropped a plastic shopping bag in the floor and elegantly folded himself into the chair opposite Daniel. _Jesus God, no. The navy blue suit._ But seconds later, he no longer cared about the suit or the package inside the slacks. Michael had been hit. The motherfucker had hit him again, twice if the bruises were any indication. His temper seethed; he imagined storming into Old Man Golland’s office and punching his antiquated lights out for marring Michael’s beautiful face and for hurting his son once again.

“It’s just a small black eye and a busted lip,” Michael said, his voice surprisingly calm. “Nothing’s broken. I’m fine.”

“That’s not the point!” he snapped, furious that Michael didn’t seem the least bit angry that he’d been abused at the hands of his father yet again, and after he had specifically asked him to not let himself be hit.

“I know it’s not,” he answered. Then an arrogant smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “But I told him if he ever hit me again, I was going to hit him back, and I was going to hurt him, because I’m almost thirty years younger than him. I don’t think he’ll be laying a hand on me anymore.”

Just like that, Daniel’s anger evaporated. If he could carry a tune, he would have burst out into song. He was so fucking proud of Michael for taking a stand against his father. He knew from his work with abuse victims, that the amount of courage that took was off-the-charts impressive.

“Thank you for the loan,” Michael said.

 _Thank you??_ That was the second heartfelt thanks Michael had given him. That had to be a record. But…

“Loan??”

Michael chuckled softly. “The balls you loaned me Saturday night. Thank you.”

Hearing that word cross Michael’s lips sent a pleasant tingle shivering across his own balls. _Jesus. This guy has sex oozing out of his pores today. What the hell is going on??_  He swallowed hard, and waved off the comment, chuckling. “You’re welcome. I have an extra pair, so you can keep them however long you need them.” _As long as you run that tongue all over them before you give them back. And make sure they smell like your cologne._ Damn, he needed to pull himself together.

Thankfully, Michael changed the subject. “What’s for lunch today? I’m starved.”

He unwrapped the subs for Michael’s inspection. He’d spent a greater part of his evening cooking, trying not to worry about what was happening at the Golland house. He’d gone to extra lengths to make sure the steak was cut thin enough and would be tender enough to melt in their mouths. His steak subs were as kick-ass as his chicken salad.

“I hope you used a decent cut of meat,” Michael said snidely. “I don’t want to still be chewing it this time tomorrow.”

Daniel stopped what he was doing, and looked up into that gorgeous, patronizing face. “Fuck you.”

Michael surprised him by laughing. Beautiful white, even teeth. Deep blue eyes sparkling with warmth for once. The soft, arrogant laugh that he found so incredibly sexy. The fucker was messing with him, and enjoying it, too.

“It’s ribeye, asshole,” he snapped jokingly, and Michael snickered again, the insult flowing right off his back.

 _Someone is in a helluva good mood today._  He wondered what had happened to cause such a change in him. Maybe his appointment had been with some blonde bombshell with double-D tits and a tight cunt. Nothing like an hour of grinding sex to lighten somebody’s dour mood. His sack tightened as an image of Michael pounding some chick from behind burst into his brain. Even though he’d rather it be Michael on his knees and _him_ topping that fine ass, the idea of Michael with a woman suddenly sounded kind of hot. _Damn. I need to get laid, and soon, if straight sex is starting to turn me on._

They ate in satisfied silence until Michael commented on how great the subs tasted and on the tenderness of the steak. He glowed at the compliment. There were fresh, seedless red grapes for dessert, his favorite healthy snack. A harmless food. Just little round, flavorful, reddish-purple globes. Totally harmless. Until Michael picked one up and held it between his long, slender index finger and his thumb. _He has beautiful hands_. Even though his palms weren't rich-boy smooth, his nails were immaculate: perfectly trimmed and clean. Those long fingers and the things they could do. _Yum._ But back to the thumb. Michael’s thumb was an impressive length, and if he remembered correctly, the length of a guy’s thumb was supposed to be indicative of the length of his—

“I also took your advice about having an open, honest conversation with my father,” Michael said, popping a grape in his mouth and interrupting his finger fantasies. “I confronted him about what happened with Deidra. He accused me of lying, of course. That’s when he hit me. In his mind, he was just helping me become a man, and he refused to even acknowledge my version of things.” He shrugged. “Just as I predicted. But I threatened to blab it all in court if he didn’t take care of this case, so that shut him up.” He snickered. “And it pissed him off, too. It was fun to watch my father sit and spin for once.”

“So, what did he do?”

Michael shook his head. “Nothing. But he’s going to do something. You don’t defy him and get by with it. I have no idea what the punishment will be, but he’s definitely going to make me pay for standing up to him.”

“Maybe he has a newfound respect for you and he won't do anything,” he suggested.

A chuckle. “No. That’s not how he operates.”

They finished the meal without further conversation. Lunch was almost over, at least for him, and as he cleaned up their mess, he mulled over what he wanted to say before he left. Michael had made some amazing progress literally overnight, and he needed to know someone had noticed it.  “I’m really proud of you,” he said softly. “Standing up to him took a lot of courage. It doesn’t matter if he denies the truth. What matters is that you confronted him and you got this all out in the open. You’ve taken a big first step in healing. That’s huge, man. I’m proud of you.”

Daniel extended his fist across the coffee table. Michael frowned, hesitated a few moments, then finally managed a small, uncertain smile, bumping his knuckles against Daniel’s. He looked uncomfortable, off-balance, like he didn’t know what to say. “Thank you,” he said simply.

 _That makes three._ Was this really Michael Golland sitting across from him, or some host body with an alien living inside it?

“So, do I have steak sauce on my suit, or what?” Michael said, adroitly changing the subject once again. “You’ve been staring at it the whole time.”

 _Busted_. He swallowed, searching frantically for a plausible reason. There wasn’t one. “Uhm…that’s a nice suit. I was just noticing how nice it is, and how nice it looks on you.”

A crooked grin. “For nineteen hundred dollars it better look nice on me, or else Armani is giving me a refund. So…purple now?”

 _What??_ He was slow today. It took him an interminable ten or more seconds to get it: his Converse. They were purple.

“How many of those do you own again?” Michael asked, staring thoughtfully at his canvassed feet.

He shrugged. He’d never counted them, but he was pretty sure he had every color they made. “A lot.”

“So, people actually like those things??” Michael asked, frowning. “Maybe I need to check out their stock.” And before he could get a smart-assed comeback past his filter, Michael changed the subject yet again. “Oh, before I forget. I bought you something. That was the main reason I was late.” He picked up the plastic bag from the floor and sat it on the coffee table. “Open it.”

Surprised, he dug in and pulled out a small burlap bag. _100% Jamaican Blue Mountain Coffee_ , read the words on the front. His first impulse was to get down on his knees and lick Michael's shiny black shoes. Then his pride kicked in. He looked up at Michael; his expression was unreadable for the first time since he’d walked in the room. “This stuff is hugely expensive.”

Michael nodded. “Fifty-three dollars a pound, and five extra dollars to grind the beans.” A smirk. “That’s the kind of money I keep in the ashtray in my car.”

“But...,” he started, then stopped. If his mother were here, she would have already smacked the side of his head for his bad manners. You never questioned a gift or the reason it was given.

“You like it,” Michael answered, reading his mind. “I know it’s expensive and it’s not something you’d buy for yourself, so I bought it for you.”

He finally found his manners and smiled, thanking him over and over again for the amazing gift. For a single guy like himself, good coffee was the next best thing to getting a blow job first thing in the morning.

In the middle of the thankfest, Michael started, reaching inside his jacket for his phone. He glanced at the screen and frowned, pursing his lips into a delectable, but unhappy, pout. “And so the other shoe drops,” he said. “I’ve been summoned to appear in my father’s home office tonight. For my punishment, no doubt.” He cursed softly. “There goes my X-Box.”

He snickered at Michael’s perfect delivery, deadpan expression and all. There was no way this sophisticated specimen of intellect and culture lounged around on his bed playing video games. “Probably your phone, too,” he added, smirking and joining in on the joke.

Michael sighed. “Yeah. And I can forget hanging out at the mall with my friends this weekend.”

“You’re going to be grounded for _EVER_ , dude,” Daniel added, chuckling.

"If only I'd get off that easy."

The humor had left the building. All joking aside, Michael looked seriously worried. Short of killing him, what in the world could his father do? He had no idea, but he believed what he saw in Michael's eyes. "It's going to be bad," he said softly.

Michael nodded. "Very."

 

 **MICHAEL'S NAVY BLUE SUIT** (or as close to navy as I could get it in Photoshop.) 

 


	20. The Punishment

Michael's closet lay open before him, a yawning space that took up almost one entire wall of his bedroom. What to wear? What was considered the appropriate attire for getting his ass handed to him on a platter by his father?

Remembering his confession, and how he was supposed to be sorry for all of his bad behavior and try not to repeat it, an inner voice told him he should probably put the navy blue suit back on. _Fuck that._ If he was going to be treated like a teenager, he was going to dress like one. He rummaged through the hangars in the casual side of his closet until he found the perfect thing: his three hundred and fifty dollar designer jeans with the holes ripped down the front legs. It annoyed his father every single time he wore them, and always led to his bemoaning the idiocy of a generation who considered wearing tattered rags to be trendy. He wished he had an offensive t-shirt to go with it—maybe something with a pot leaf on the front—but had to settle for one of his plain white v-necked undershirts instead. Showing up in what his father would consider underwear? Yeah, it didn’t get any more disrespectful than that.

“And this is why I suck at being a good Catholic,” he said aloud to his empty bedroom.

But if God was paying attention, He should have given him brownie points for doing his good deed for the day and not mentioning Daniel’s atrocious taste in clothes during their lunch. Not in any universe—Bohemian, gay, or otherwise—did purple shoes go with Army-green cargo pants. That minute lavender stripe in his button-down shirt was no justification for those shoes. Daniel was a fashion disaster from top to bottom.

 _But isn’t that part of his charm?_ As he studied himself in the full-length mirror, he realized that even at his most disrespectful—holey jeans and an undershirt—he still looked uninteresting and bland. Daniel made a bold personal statement with his wardrobe; his screamed conformity. _And that’s what attracts you to him. He’s ballsy and confident, eclectic and interesting. Everything you’re not._

He checked the time. He only had five minutes to present himself in his father’s office. He was tempted to be purposely late, but since this was essentially his funeral, tardiness would be pointless. He was already being juvenile enough with his clothes. His fate was already decided. Delaying it wouldn’t change a thing. He sighed and left the room.

* * *

 

The dancing flames in the stone fireplace were supposed to make the room more cozy, their warmth holding the dampness of a cold LA night at bay. The effect was lost on Michael. He’d hated his father’s home office as far back as he could remember. He’d nicknamed it “The Throne Room” during one of his many short-lived teenage rebellious phases, and the name had stuck, at least in _his_ mind.

His father was all about presentation, projecting an illusion that masked reality. His office was one such illusion, a study in testosterone-driven masculinity: a dark wood-paneled ceiling that gave the room a pressing, claustrophobic feel; sturdy leather furniture; hardwood flooring; a claw-footed desk surrounded by shelves of books that had probably never been read. The only thing missing that would complete the stereotypical façade would be if a massive rhino head were mounted over the fireplace. For some odd reason, his father wasn’t a hunter, at least not of animals. He preferred, instead, to hone his stalking, predatory skills on his own son.

He was careful to keep his expression wiped clean of any arrogance, but inside he was gloating over the deep disapproval on his father’s face at his juvenile choice of clothing—a small victory, and likely the only one he would take away from this meeting.

He was ordered to sit in the only leather arm chair in the room, which faced his father's desk—the Inquisitional Chair as he'd dubbed it a long time ago. All that was missing to make it a medieval torture device was the carpet of spikes under the victim’s feet. Every time he'd sat in that chair, he’d come away from the experience with another scar.

“When I was your age, I’d already been married three years, and Paul, Jr. was on the way,” his father stated, using his patronizing voice.

 _Jesus Fuck Almighty. Not this again._  How many times should a child have to listen to the When-I-Was-Your-Age story before it could be called child abuse? Keeping his expression neutral, he put his brain on autopilot as his father rambled on and on about how he was already on the road to success at age twenty-six, with an emerging and successful business, a lovely wife who knew her place— _which was a few steps behind him, instead of by his side_ , he added silently—a child on the way, and good standing in the community. He was active in the church and in local charities. Blah, blah, blah.

“And what have _you_ accomplished at twenty-six?” _Here it comes, the list of all my failures and fuck-ups._ “You work at a job I gave you. You live in your mother’s house. The only things you own are your horses, a Jeep, and a perverted penthouse in the city. And you have to pay women to get them to go there with you. You've been arrested twice on domestic battery charges. You’re hated by nearly everyone at GEM, and you refuse to go to church. You have zero respectability in this town, Michael, and that's going to change."

He did a mental eye roll, but said nothing in his defense. It was all true, after all.

His father sat back in his cushy leather chair and studied him. "You think you're good at controlling people—" A small, smug smile. "—but you're a lightweight." He leaned forward again, focusing his cold gaze on Michael's face. "In order to effectively control another person, you must first discover their weakness—the one thing they absolutely cannot live without. When you find that one thing, you own them."

His mouth suddenly went dry. There were only two things in this world he couldn't live without. Which one was going on the chopping block?

Relaxing back in his chair, his father smirked. "Your thirtieth birthday is just around the corner. I'm sure you remember what that means."

Of course he remembered. At age eighteen, he'd received the first installment from a trust fund established by his grandfather—a modest six figures, which he'd wisely invested, turning six figures into a comfortable seven in just a couple of years. His second installment would be disbursed on his 30th birthday.

"It's _eight_ figures this time," his father teased. "Enough to buy you a respectable life: a house of your own, a business, investments in the community. There are a lot of things— _productive_ things—you could do with that kind of money. What you don't know is that your grandfather left me in complete control of those trust funds. I can do all kinds of things with them. For example, I can disperse them early, under certain emergency circumstances. Or, if by some unfortunate turn of events, one of my children turned out to be a drug addict, I could freeze the trust altogether and not disburse any funds until they got clean. I can even change the terms of the disbursements, which is what I've decided to do with yours."

A sense of dread, of impending doom, crept into the room and wound itself around his body like an illicit lover, squeezing his pounding heart in its fist, stealing the breath from his lungs, tenderly suffocating him in his own skin. He was a spoiled brat; money was his weakness. This was going to hurt.

"In order for you to receive the second disbursement on your 30th birthday, you must have been legally married for a full two years before that date, and you must have continually resided in the same house with your spouse during those two years. No farce marriage allowed." He chuckled. "I wanted to add a baby in there for good measure, but my attorney wisely pointed out that women's reproductive organs are notoriously unpredictable. So, no children, but marriage is now a requirement."

Fingers digging into the leather upholstery, he fought to contain his rage. "I'm not interested in getting married!"

"I don't give a shit what you're interested in!" his father snapped. "You're going to get with the program and become a respectable member of this family one way or the other. You've had seven years to do something productive with your life, yet you chose to do nothing of substance. Your chances are over."

"You can't force me to get married!!" he shouted, his temper finally erupting.

"No one's forcing you to do anything, Michael. You don't have to get married. You can stay single as long as you want." A smirk. "But of course, if you do, you won't get all that beautiful money to play with."

He had never hated his father as much as he did at that moment. He had to get out of that room before he did something that would land his ass in jail. He shot up out of the chair and jabbed his fists into his jeans pockets before they found their way to his father's arrogant face.  "Is that all?"

A chuckle. "Wasn't that enough? Oh, and one other thing. I'm leaving the country tomorrow. I'll be gone for seven days. Needless to say, I am done fixing your fuck-ups, so try to control yourself while I'm away."

Leaving the country?? His curiosity momentarily quashed his anger. "Where are you going?"

His father hesitated. _Strange._

"The Dominican Republic. I'm meeting some investors there." He pretended disinterest, despite the fact that every cell in his body was screaming a silent alarm. "I won't be here for Christmas," his father continued. "But considering we haven't celebrated it since your mother died, that doesn't really matter, does it?"

It was a rhetorical question—or a dig—because he despised Christmas and his father knew it. He started for the door, but that pompous voice stopped him.

"If you need help finding a wife, I can certainly offer some suggestions. I have some business associates who have some very lovely daughters. I can make the introductions."

Hell would freeze over first. Without answering, he stalked from the room.

* * *

 

As soon as Michael stepped foot out of his father's house, his temper ignited in a conflagration unlike any he'd experienced before. He desperately needed to hit someone, or tear something to shreds with his bare hands. He couldn't go home, not in his present state of mind. He could certainly be immature and impulsive when the situation called for it, but destroying his mother's legacy to him was not something he was willing to do. She'd worked hard on that house, and had left it to him in her will. He would disrespect his father all day long, but not his mother. So, there was only one place left to go.

Stampeding into the barn like a raging bull would upset Claire, so he stood outside in the damp cold and forced himself to calm down. It took longer than it should have, but when he finally pushed open the barn doors, he was settled, centered. He was still angry, but he had it under control.

It was said that breathing in the scent of lavender could lower the heart rate and blood pressure, but he would take the smell of fresh hay, and even the pungency of manure, over lavender any day. The warmth inside the barn was comforting, unlike the heat from the flames that had burned in his father's fireplace. This warmth was like chicken soup when you had a cold, like being bundled up in your favorite blanket and sleeping on your mother's lap when you were sick. This barn, and Claire, had saved his emotional life countless times during his childhood, and he was confident they would save him again tonight.

Claire welcomed him with a soft snort. He brushed her, even though she didn't need it, and gave her an extra portion of oats, just because. He mucked out her stall, replacing the soiled contents with a fresh bed of hay. He combed her tail, her mane, and through it all, he talked softly to her. He told her his predicament, and how his life was nothing but a chess piece to be moved around at his father's whim. As he talked, his mind was busy working it out, searching for an escape route, or at the very least, an acceptable detour on the road to a forced marriage.

The thought of living with a woman 24/7 made him sick to his stomach: the selfish demands she would make on his coveted free time; the constant talking that women always seemed to want to do; having to take her to functions, parties, charity events all the time, and the inane social niceties that went with all of that; the incessant sexual rituals and PDA required, which he loathed (kissing, cuddling, holding hands, acting like he gave a shit about the person standing next to him); disgustingly normal sex and the logical next step: a brat of his own to abuse. He wanted nothing to do with any of it. He liked his current life—fucked up as it was—just fine.

But the money. His father had pushed the right button. As soon as he'd heard the words "eight figures" he'd started thinking about which investments he could dump and which he could beef up to maximize his yield. His father had been right about one thing, at least: there was a hell of a lot he could do with that kind of money. He didn't give one big fuck about buying respectability with it; he was going to buy his independence. That money would enable him to finally slice the steel umbilical cord that held him to his father, while still living in the style and luxury to which he'd become accustomed. _And all I have to do to get it is marry some money-grubbing cunt, live with her for two straight years, and negotiate the mother of all prenups first._

Claire was staring at him with her huge soft eyes, and there was definitely an intelligence behind that deep brown gaze. Not for the first time, he wondered what was going on inside her head. What did she think of this stupid human who obviously cared for her and provided her everything she needed, but who also whined and complained to her all the time? If she suddenly got the gift of speech, he wondered what wise words she would have for him at that very moment.

"I know," he said to her. "You think I'm selling out, and I am." He chuckled softly. "I'm a greedy bastard, Claire. We both know that about me. But this is more complicated than just money. This is a power struggle, a war, between me and my father. This confrontation has been building since I was a kid, and the time has finally come for me to decide whether I'm going to continue to take his bullshit or if I'm going to fight him."

As he stroked her soft coat, he felt the final, angry chords of hate and violence leave him. He felt serene, at peace, much like the feeling he always got during a magnificent sunrise. His thoughts were clear, his mind focused. The details started to fall into place. His father's first mistake was thinking his fuck-up of a son lacked the intelligence and/or balls to take him on. That was the first lesson of warfare: never underestimate your enemy.

Every successful war had the big, glorious battles that were splashed all over the newspapers, the battles that could shift the balance of power literally overnight. But there were also the numerous, and seemingly unimportant skirmishes, whose sole intent was just to annoy the hell out of the enemy, to provoke them into making a stupid mistake. He smiled as one possible scenario drifted into his mind, a small skirmish that would have very little impact on the outcome of their war, but one that would please the hell out of him, and irritate the ever-loving fuck out of his father. It involved Daniel, a bit of ironic icing on that revenge cake. _Perfect!_ He would work on making that happen tomorrow, during lunch.

It was at that point that the annoying little chihuahua that had continually nipped at his ankles while he'd been working, finally bit a chunk out of his leg and got his attention. _The Dominican Republic. The Dominican Fucking Republic, of all places!_ What was his father doing down in that hell hole? As far as he knew, GEM didn't have any financial interests in that country, but perhaps he should take a second look at their corporate holdings to make sure. Who were these investors, and why were they interested in throwing their money down a "developing nation" rat hole with a huge drug and corruption problem?

He had no answers, but the good news was that his pater familias was going to be out of the way for seven blissful days, plenty of time for him to snoop around GEM and add to those files he had secretly tucked away in a safe deposit box. Plenty of time to solidify his fall-back position in this newly-declared war.

Also plenty of time to hang out with Daniel. Maybe he'd get another opinion on his looming nuptials—a unique, Bohemian approach to wiggling oneself out of a forced marriage. It was worth a try.

**PAUL GOLLAND'S HOME OFFICE**

 


	21. Joystyk

“Well this is something new,” Cameron drawled, gazing around the elaborate décor in wonder. “Firing your employees in the private dining room of a five-star restaurant. I guess we won’t be getting reimbursed for the outrageous valet parking fee, huh?”

Daniel tried to tune out Cam’s negativity, but he was catching that shit faster than the common cold. Word had been sent to him via Trudy that their usual lunch in Michael’s office was cancelled, and he and Cam were to report to this fancy-pants restaurant at precisely noon. She’d hadn’t known why the change, but unfortunately, he had a pretty good idea: the confrontation over the identity of Joystyk had finally arrived.

“And of course the prick is late,” Cam said. “Gotta make sure the hired help knows who has the bigger dick.”

He rolled his eyes and managed to restrain himself from telling Cam to just shut up and drink his complimentary water, but he was right. Despite the fact that Michael had actually behaved like a normal human being the past couple of days, he still liked his little power plays. _Keep us waiting, wondering. Classic control freak behavior_.

“…aaand our country club peacock has arrived,” Cameron murmured softly under his breath.

He turned to look as Michael strode confidently into the small dining room, briefcase in hand. He poured his fuck-hot sexy self into a chair opposite him and Cam, and placed the case on the table. Black suit, black shirt and a patterned red tie. _Sizzle._

“Sorry I’m late. Unavoidable,” Michael said, scooting in his chair and unbuttoning his jacket. And of course, no reason for his unavoidable lateness was forthcoming. He nodded a silent welcome to Cam and very adeptly avoided Daniel’s probing gaze with just a brushing glance. “I hope you’re not starving because I’ve instructed the waiter not to disturb us for at least half an hour.”

As if either one of them could enjoy a meal with their jobs hanging in limbo.

"So what's this about?" Cam asked, defensiveness already creeping into his voice and the meeting hadn't even begun.

In answer, Michael snapped open the latches on his briefcase and laid an 8x10 glossy on the table. "Daniel's mural he did in San Francisco, with the signature portion enlarged." He finally met Daniel's eyes. "Your signature isn't an actual name. You use a design that is unique to you, and you use it on every piece of street art you do."

Daniel swallowed but there was nothing to go down; his mouth felt like it was full of sawdust.

Michael pulled another sheet from his case and laid it beside the first one, turning his focus to Cam. "A print of your stylized tag I purchased at The Glazed Canvas, with the signature portion enlarged. You also use a design for your signature instead of your name." Then two color transparencies made their way out of the case and onto the table. "I had overlays made of each of your signatures. Lay the two on top of one another—" Which he did, then whipped out yet another glossy image. "—and, voila, you have Joystyk's signature, which appears on this enlarged image of the pornographic mural painted on GEM's building. Joystyk is Daniel Hart and Cameron Scott, painting together to protect each other from discovery." A small, satisfied smile. "Pretty ingenious, actually."

The silence in the room was deafening, the blood roaring in his ears thunderous. He hazarded a glance at Cam, dismayed to see a distinct tightness in his jaw. His friend was pissed and on the verge of throwing a very loud tantrum in a very swanky restaurant.

"Cam...," he warned softly.

Michael relaxed back in his seat, his gaze flicking from one of them to the other. "At first I didn't care about the reason behind the vandalism. I just wanted to catch who did it. But, now I _do_ care. Tell me why you went to all this expense and risk with nothing to show for it."

He opened his mouth to answer, but Cam cut him off. "I own this, not Daniel," he answered, his chin raised in defiance. "I came up with the idea, planned it, designed the mural, and I bought the majority of the supplies. So you talk to _me."_

Michael nodded. "All right. Why did you do it?"

"I paint for Devon," Cam answered proudly. "Devon Stafford. Remember him?"

A bone flexed sharply beneath the skin of Michael's clean-shaven jaw. That told Daniel the answer before he even opened his mouth. _Oh yes, he remembers._

"He was in Accounts Receivable," Michael said, then added in an all-business tone, "We let him go for missing an excessive number of days of work without approved excuses."

Cam shot up out of his seat and slammed his palms down on the table in fury. "He was sick! He had AIDS, you fucking heartless bastard!!"

Daniel jumped up, sending his own chair crashing to the floor, grabbing Cam in a bear hug before he could launch himself across the table at Michael. He talked him down, reminding him that they were in a nice restaurant, and this was not the time or place to have a screaming, knock-down drag-out fight. Nothing would be gained from that. "We need to talk about this like adults, Cam," he reasoned. When he felt Cam relax in his arms, he let go, righted his chair and they both cautiously sat back down. Michael gave him a silent look of thanks, although he had no idea why. Michael was slender, but his looks were deceiving. He was strong enough to flatten Cam into a road pizza if he wanted to.

"Tell me about Devon," Michael said softly. Daniel was surprised at the gentleness of the command—none of his usual arrogance—but Cam looked absolutely stunned. It apparently took a few moments to process the unexpected sincerity he'd heard in Michael's voice.

"He was my friend, my lover, the other half of my soul," Cam answered, his voice hushed.

Of course, Daniel already knew the story of Cam and Devon, so while Cam explained, he watched Michael's face.

Neither one of them had known Devon had been exposed to HIV when they'd entered into a relationship together. It was only when Devon had been bitten by a spider, and the wound had continued to worsen instead of getting better, that it was discovered the virus had lain dormant in him for years. It had picked that inopportune moment to rear it's ugly head in the form of full-blown AIDS.

"We were devastated at first," Cam said. "But then we tried to put a positive spin on it. With all the advances in treatment, hardly anyone died of AIDS anymore, so everything was going to work out okay for us."

It didn't turn out that way. Devon's immune system was so weak he stayed continually sick, visiting the doctor multiple times a month, and racking up astronomical medical bills, even with his insurance. He tried to stay productive at GEM, but it was hard when he had to bring nausea, diarrhea and extreme fatigue to work with him every day.

"I don't blame you for Devon's death," Cam said, looking squarely into Michael's eyes. To his credit, Michael didn't flinch or look away. "After awhile, it became obvious to both of us his body wasn't up to the fight. But what I _do_ blame you for, what I blame _GEM_ for, is shortening the already limited time I had left with him. If you hadn't fired him, he wouldn't have lost his insurance, and that's what changed everything. He was a proud guy. He didn't want to leave this world with huge medical bills his only legacy, and he didn't want me to spend the rest of my life paying them off. So, without insurance, he refused to go to the doctor unless it was unavoidable. His condition worsened much quicker than it would have. He ended up in hospice, where he died in my arms."

Michael's jaw clenched and he swallowed hard. He was bothered by what he was hearing. _Good._ It was about time someone from GEM finally got an up-close and personal look at the real-life consequences of their bigotry.

"When you fired him, he lost more than just his job," Cam said, his voice trembling. "He lost his dignity, his self-worth. He needed to feel like he was still being productive, and you took that from him. You could have moved him into another position, or maybe allowed him to work from home at his own pace, but you didn't even try to make any accommodations for him." Cam's voice hardened. "And I know for a fact you've made allowances in the past for other employees in similar situations. The difference with Devon was that he was gay and he had AIDS. Your company hates the LGBT community and discriminates against them with no conscience. That's why I defaced your precious building. It was my way of saying 'Fuck you. We're here and we're not going away, so just fucking deal with it.'"

Cam leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest, a rare, arrogant smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. He was silently challenging Michael: _So now you know why I did it. Now, what bullshit excuse are you going to roll out to justify the pain you've caused?_

Michael's eyes shifted briefly to his. Like that day in his office, when Michael had given his interpretation of Patch of Grass, Daniel saw a great sadness in those blue depths; he saw loss and profound grief. Michael turned back to Cam. "No matter what you may think of me, I _do_ know what it feels like to lose someone who means more to you than life itself. I'm very sorry for your loss."

A heartfelt expression of sympathy from Michael Golland was definitely a holy shit moment. He was stunned; Cameron was in shock. He'd dropped his arms and was staring stupidly back at Michael, obviously trying to reconcile the arrogant prick in his mind with this new and improved version who actually had empathy for other people.

"I don't have the final say in decisions like the one with Devon. For the record, I vehemently argued against his firing. Like you said, we'd made allowances for other employees before. Any two-bit ambulance chaser could have found that out, sued the ass off us, and we would have lost. But I was overruled." Then a small frown creased Michael's forehead. "I'm curious, why didn't he sue? He certainly had a strong case."

"Why didn't he sue??" Cam chuckled derisively. "He was too sick to sue, and I had no legal standing to file suit for him. Ever heard of Proposition 8? We would have loved to have gotten married before he died, but that was never an option for us, not with Prop 8 on the books. Same sex marriage became illegal in California again, thanks to our great citizens and their arrogant notion that they get to decide through the ballot box who I spend my life with. To the state, I was just his live-in fuck buddy, nothing special."

"He could have given you power of attorney, and then you could have sued on his behalf," Michael said.

"He didn't want to fight you," Cam said, sighing. "No matter how much I tried to convince him, he refused."

"What about his family?"

"His family??" Cam laughed bitterly. "His religious nut-job family completely disowned him when he came out to them at sixteen. They threw him onto the streets and told him not to come back until he'd quit 'living a perverted lifestyle and found God'. There was no one to stand for him, and he wouldn't let me do it. In the end, he said he just didn't want to spend his last days on earth in court."

Michael looked at Daniel again, and this time his eyes were filled with a blue-cold anger. _Curious._

"Is there anything I can do?" Michael asked Cam.

For the second time, Cam's mouth dropped open, but he recovered a little quicker that time. "There's nothing anyone can do."

"Actually, there is something," Daniel interjected, ignoring Cam's pointed stare. "If you really mean it, if you really want to do something helpful, then you can pay off Devon's medical bills."

He didn't even hesitate. "Done," Michael said. "Send them all to me and they'll be paid in full."

"Why would you do that?" Cam asked, frowning in confused disbelief.

"I didn't know about Devon's circumstances. We knew he had AIDS, but I didn't know the details of his personal life, his past history, or that he'd passed. It's the least I can do to fix something that should have never happened in the first place," Michael answered.

"That's the trouble with painting a whole group of people with a broad brush, Michael," he said. "You miss the stories like Devon's. Stereotyping allows you to ignore the fact that these are human beings you're hurting, people with the same hopes, dreams and feelings as you. It has to stop."

Michael said nothing in response, but he saw a flicker of acknowledgment—or perhaps agreement—in his eyes.

 

* * *

 

The waiter finally came, and in between deciding what to order and the salad course, nothing much of substance was said between them. Cam was mostly silent, apparently still trying to process the fact that Michael wasn't the horrible man he'd thought him to be. Daniel was just plain nervous. Despite Michael's sudden personality reversal, he couldn't forget his promise that he would fire whoever had vandalized GEM's building no matter who they were, or how important they were to the company. When the food arrived, he decided it was then or never. Someone had to ask THE question that was on both their minds.

"So, are you going to fire us or what?" he asked in between bites of steak. Cam snapped to attention, fork poised in the air, waiting for his answer.

"No, I'm not," Michael said. "I've spoken to your supervisor and he only has good things to say about both of you. I'd be an idiot to fire you. And no matter what other things I may be, I am not an idiot, not when it comes to business." He smiled at Daniel. "You're still in the asset column."

He breathed a sigh of relief.

"Well, color _me_ skeptical," Cam murmured, obviously not buying what Michael was selling.

With a sigh, Michael opened his briefcase again and pulled out all of the images of their artwork he'd used to identify Joystyk. He stacked them neatly, then pushed the entire pile across the table to Cam.

"They're yours," Michael said. "Dispose of them however you want. Come to my office in the morning and I'll give you back all five of your tags I bought; you keep the money. And Daniel, you can remove the mural from your sample portfolio and replace it with something else. As of this moment, I've just become the most bumbling vandalism investigator in the history of crime fighting." He smirked. "I have no clue who painted that mural, and no viable leads. It's a dead end."

He wasn't sure which he wanted to do first, kick Michael's ass or wring his neck. "So, all those pictures and the transparencies, putting this on top of that, and 'voila!', was just you showing off??"

Michael nodded, grinning. "Yes."

"You asshole," he sneered.

Michael chuckled softly. "You've called me that so many times I'm beginning to think I should change the nameplate on my desk."

Cam interrupted their banter before he could deliver a smart-assed comeback. "So, let me get this straight. We deface your building—which is a crime last time I checked—and you have the evidence to prove it, and yet you're going to do nothing to us?? There has to be some fine print somewhere that we're missing."

"You don't believe me," Michael said, sighing.

"No, it's that I don't _trust_ you," Cam retorted.

"Then maybe this will convince you I can be trusted: I want to hire Joystyk to do a little redecorating at Redemption House."

He was completely blind-sided by Michael's pronouncement, but it appeared that Cam's doubts and suspicions had suddenly evaporated; his eyes were vivid green and gleaming with excitement. They'd had a hard-on for Redemption House since Joystyk's birth. "That place is a medieval torture chamber," Daniel said, practically snarling.

"That's an understatement," Michael said. Despite the smoothness of the delivery, he saw raw hatred in Michael's face. _What the hell??_ Suddenly, he had this strange feeling he'd missed something important, because a faint alarm, much like the soft peal of a distant bell in heavy fog, was ringing in his brain.

"We'd love to help you out," Cam said, sighing. "But we wrote off Redemption House a long time ago. Those plate glass windows in front are just begging for paint, but there's too much exposure. It would be impossible to pull off without getting caught, even in the dead of night. Too much light, and there are cameras at the entrance." Then Cam's eyes narrowed. "What have you got against Redemption House anyway? They've destroyed the lives of countless gays and lesbians through the years. I'd think someone like you would be one of their strongest supporters."

So it wasn't just him. Cam noticed it, too. Something was off. Michael's lips tightened. It didn't look like he was too happy with Cam's comment but, as he'd seen him do many times before, Michael held onto his temper and deliberately swallowed his anger.

"In the extreme right rear of the building there's a small chapel," Michael said. "The only way you can tell it's a chapel is by the six arched windows on the side and back of the building. The rest of the windows are normal."

"Stained glass?" Cam asked.

Michael shook his head. "No. Just tinted gold. The three on the right look out onto a service alley that runs along the side of the building. The three on the back look out onto another alley, the service entrance where they unload supplies for the center. There's also a warehouse facing those back windows that's used for storage by another company. There are no cameras back there, and the lights are just simple floodlights. Unscrew them and you're completely in the dark."

Daniel glanced at Cam. He was staring down at the table, deep in thought. _Fuck_. The idiot was actually considering it! No way was he going to let Cam make that decision for both of them. They were going talk it out—in private—before they gave Michael an answer.

And, not only that, but that distant bell in his brain was getting a whole lot louder, like the fog was gradually lifting. _How the hell does Michael know so much about Redemption House?_ It almost sounded like he'd been inside it. _Maybe he just got a floor plan off the Internet, or maybe he owns a bazillion shares of stock in the fucking place. He IS a first-class homophobe, remember._ Then suddenly someone flipped the switch. The light came on in his brain, blinding him with the truth and exposing him for the self-centered moron he was. The clues came flooding in. He remembered Michael's explanation of the rape and how his father had ridiculed him for fighting it: 'This was his last chance to prove he was capable of being a man. He wasn't normal and never had been. He needed to be sent off to find out what was wrong with him. He was disgusted by the sight of his own son.' Add in his angry reaction to Devon's back history, the fact that Michael was head of personnel and heavily complicit in the discriminatory firings, his obvious hatred of homosexuals, the promiscuity with women, the abuse, the violence...

 _Michael Golland is living in the closet._ The thought slammed into his brain like a sledgehammer, and nearly took his breath away. How had he missed the signs??? Michael was gay, or at the very least bi, and he was silently suffering.

"You're missing one important thing," Cam said finally. "The back half of the building is fenced, with a locked gate. There's probably an alarm on it, too. It's impossible."

Daniel forced his mind back into focus, and back into the conversation at the table. He'd think about Michael's personal situation later when he was alone and could meticulously go back through every one of their conversations for more clues. He had to be absolutely sure before he could even think of approaching him about his sexuality.

"There is no alarm," Michael stated with a smug smile. "And the fence isn't made to keep people out. It's there to keep them _in."_

Cam's eyes flicked to Daniel's face. _So, he's picking up what Michael is putting down, too._ It was good to know it wasn't just wishful thinking on his part.

"My father is on the board of directors of Redemption House. He's their biggest financial supporter," Michael continued. "He's currently out of the country for an entire week. He has a key to that gate and I know where he keeps it. I can get you a copy of it."

Cam stared at Michael with that mischievous expression on his face that, unfortunately, he knew all too well. "I'll say one thing for you," Cam said, grinning. "You sure do know how to give an angry gay boy with an agenda a massive boner."

"So does that mean you'll do it?" Michael asked.

He interrupted before Cam could open his mouth and get them both in deeper shit than they'd ever been in. "It means we're going to _talk_ about it," he said, glaring pointedly at his partner in crime. "We're going to go back to Redemption House and check things out, then we're going to go back home and talk about it some more. We'll give you an answer in a couple of days."

"There are no budget limitations for this. Whatever you need, you'll get it," Michael said, a bit of his arrogance making an appearance again. "I'll just crack open one of my piggy banks from first grade. That should take care of it."

Daniel shook his head and grinned. "You're a shameless snobby millionaire."

Michael chuckled and tipped his imaginary hat. "At your service."

He could feel Cam's gaze on his face, but refused to look his way. If his suspicions were correct, and Michael was a closeted gay man, then the whole dynamic of their relationship would change. If it was true, then Michael needed his help. He needed a friend, someone who'd lived in that closet the greater part of his childhood, someone who understood the damage that dark room could do to a person's soul, someone who could help him come out, help him heal. He finally came face-to-face with his own hard truth, right there in the middle of a fancy-pants restaurant over a half-eaten steak: he'd fallen for the guy, and fallen hard. He was in love with Michael Golland.  _Shit._

"Cameron, if you don't mind, I'd like to speak with Daniel alone," Michael said, surprising him for what felt like the millionth time. "It's personal. Perhaps you can take Daniel's car back to work? I'll give him a ride back."

Cam looked to him for a signal on whether his leaving would be a good idea. He nodded his okay and dug out his keys. Cam thanked Michael for the meal, and he sounded truly sincere. Michael had somehow managed to win him over, and considering how much Cam had despised him, that was saying something.

After Cam left, Michael shifted in his chair to face him. "I wanted to talk to you about my punishment. I need some ideas on how to get my X-Box back."

 


	22. Beard

"You are fucking kidding me! He's trying to force you to get married?? Does he think this is the 10th Century??"

"My father would consider the 10th Century the Age of Enlightenment. So, any suggestions?"

He'd been asked for advice many times by his friends, but he couldn't recall ever being asked how to get someone out of a forced marriage. He felt like he'd just stepped out of a time machine. What kind of asshole parent would do that to his kid in this day and age??  "The way I see it, you only have three choices," he answered. "One: don't take the money. Then you can stay single for as long as you want."

"Not an option," Michael stated emphatically. "One thing you need to know is that I'm a greedy SOB and I'm spoiled. I want that money."

Daniel could tell he wasn't going to budge a millimeter on that one. "Okay, then option number two is find yourself a nice girl and fall madly in love."

He sputtered a laugh. "You can forget that one, too. I'm never going to get tangled up with some air-headed, gold digging cunt, let alone marry one."

They were back to that word again. He suppressed a frustrated sigh and moved on. "Okay, then your only remaining option is to get a beard."

It was apparent he had no idea what a beard was, other than the obvious facial hair, so Daniel educated him, explaining that closeted gay men who had too much at stake to come out often "dated" lesbians to give the appearance they were straight, while continuing to discreetly see men.

"You being straight..." He hesitated, letting the "s" word hang in the air, hoping for a nibble, but Michael didn't bite. "...shouldn't make any difference to a beard. You just need to make sure you choose someone you can trust implicitly, and who has no romantic feelings toward you. The last thing you need is for your beard to fall in love with you. I could put out some feelers to some lesbians I know, but I'm not sure any of them are going to want to sacrifice almost three years of their life for you, at least not for free. It could get expensive."

Michael dismissed the money issue as easily as someone swatting an annoying fly. He sat back and watched Michael reason his way through it, wishing he could get inside his head and know what he was really thinking and feeling. If he was gay and in the closet, then being forced into a sham marriage just to please his father would be the worst thing that could happen to him emotionally. He could easily see Michael becoming depressed and even more violent if that happened. What the hell was his idiot father thinking by forcing the issue??

"So, do they draw up some kind of contract?" Michael asked. "I can't see just trusting someone's word they'll be discreet. You'd have to have some sort of...uhm..." He frowned. "...beard prenup." A chuckle. "Is there such a thing?"

He shrugged. "It's your money and your happiness on the line, so I don't see any problem with spelling out the terms of the arrangement up front so you both know what's expected of you. If they don't want to sign on the dotted line, then just find someone else who will. Think of it as a business deal."

Michael nodded, smiling arrogantly. _Oh boy. That smile does not bode well for whoever is stupid (or desperate) enough to take him up on his offer._  He suddenly pitied the poor woman who ended up signing that contract and pretending to like Michael Golland enough to marry him.

"Do you want me to ask around, see if anyone is interested?" he asked, while fervently praying Michael would say no. He didn't know if he could, in good conscience, ask any of his friends to get involved in this mess.

"I don't think that'll be necessary. I actually know someone who might be interested. I just need to make sure she can be trusted. Right now that's kind of up in the air."

Whoever she was, he hoped she had a huge pair of titanium lady-balls. She was going to need them.

Michael smiled and extended his hand across the table. "I was hoping you'd come up with some unique idea I hadn't thought of. Thank you. I think you've just saved my life _and_ my investment portfolio."

He expressed his fervent hope that everything would work out for Michael, then switched gears to a topic that had been worrying a hole in his brain the past couple of days. "What are your plans for Christmas?"

Michael looked surprised, almost as if he'd forgotten that Christmas was only three days away.  "I'll probably read, maybe clean out the junk drawer in the kitchen, swim a few laps if it isn't too cold." He shrugged. "I don't really like Christmas; it's just a regular day to me. What about you?"

Daniel couldn't even imagine not celebrating Christmas. His parents went all out with the tree, the outside lights, the decorations all over the house, the food, the drinks, and especially the presents. Spending Christmas cleaning out a junk drawer was completely unacceptable in his world.  "We spend the holidays in Santa Paula. We still have the old house I grew up in. My mom gets nostalgic this time of year, so we tend to go overboard with the whole Christmas thing, but it's fun." He hesitated, wondering if he should—his dad would probably disown him—but then decided 'to fuck with it'. "Want to come down and hang out with us this weekend?"

A smirk. "Oh, I'm sure your father would love that. Me and him could sit by the fire together and read all the complaints against GEM. Cozy, but no thanks. I really do hate Christmas, Daniel. I'd just ruin everyone's holiday if I came."  He slid his phone out of an inner jacket pocket and checked the screen. "We'd better get you back to GEM before that snobby asshole in personnel decides to write you up for taking an excessively long lunch."

"Wow, self-deprecating humor," he observed, snickering. "I think I like it."

Michael laughed softly and tossed two one-hundred dollar bills on the table. "Back to work."

 

* * *

 

After work, Cam had driven directly to his house, only stopping for beer and take out. Planning how to break the law without getting caught entailed a lot of back and forth debate, along with copious amounts of food and drink. They hadn't even started the discussion before Cam announced his decision.

"I think we should do it."

Daniel gritted his teeth at Cam's obstinate tunnel vision. It was true that Redemption House had been their second target—after GEM—but they'd both agreed a long time ago it was too risky. Having a key to the gate wasn't enough to change his mind. "I think we should talk about it first."

Cam pursed his lips and nodded. "Okay. Let's talk about it. Let's talk about the fact that Michael Golland is so far in the closet he isn't ever coming out. Yeah, trust me, it shocked the shit out of me, too."

He sighed. "It kind of explains a lot of things, doesn't it?"

"Unfortunately, yes," Cam agreed. "Closeted self-haters on the anti-gay warpath. I've seen more of those in my lifetime than I care to. That man's got a bigger boner for Redemption House than we do. So the way I see it, they've messed him up and he wants to use us to get even, and I'm okay with that. We can kill two birds with one stone here, Daniel. Help out one of our own and piss off a whole bunch of misinformed religious bigots who think they can pray away the gay. Win/win."

He thought it was a bit premature to label Michael as absolutely, positively, most assuredly gay. There were a lot of clues supporting that theory, but still, you could never be absolutely sure unless you outright asked. He could not even envision how to bring that topic up in a conversation: _So, just wanted to ask you something. It's really personal and absolutely none of my business, but I'm kind of nosy that way. So...are you gay?_ That definitely wasn't the way to approach someone who was obviously hurting and unable to deal with their true sexuality in a healthy way. _Talk about pulling the pin on a grenade..._

"Michael and his father do not get along...at all. It may be that he's doing this to get back at him for something." He immediately thought of the way his father was forcing Michael to marry for appearances sake. "Or maybe to embarrass him publicly, or damage his reputation. Family dysfunction can run deep and be very complicated. It's hard to tell what his motives are, but I'm not sure we can assume with 100% certainty he's gay."

Cam grinned crookedly. "Oh, but you really want him to be, don't you?"

 _Fuck yeah_ was his first thought, but then reality blasted that sentiment into smithereens. It was one thing to flirt your ass off with a straight guy when you knew you had a snowball's chance in hell of it going anywhere. Things changed when the object of your lust and affection suddenly switched teams in the middle of the game.

"Of course I do, but he's way out of my league. Snobby, sophisticated Armani millionaire falls in love with starving, smart-assed American Eagle/Wal-Mart artist? Riiiight. Now, there's a match made in heaven," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "And a fucking cliche, too." 

The truth was that no matter how messed up Michael was, he was worse. He had enough childhood baggage to take a trip around the world. The last thing Michael needed was an emotionally fucked up boyfriend on top of all the other bullshit he was going through.

"There you go again, putting yourself down." Cam shot him a disapproving glare. "Any guy would be lucky to snag you. You'd be the best thing that ever happened to that man."

"Maybe."

Quickly changing the subject, he suggested they head out and do a drive-by of Redemption House and check out the service alleys. Then they'd come back and decide whether they should put their asses on the line for Michael Golland.


	23. Christmas Eve

He hated Christmas, the sounds of it, the smells, and especially the fake cheeriness. He wanted to scream at the world to just leave him alone and stop trying to force him to be part of it.

He finally managed to pry himself away from the festivities at work, exhausted by the endless hours of false smiles and pretending he was enjoying himself. He also managed to block it all out on the ride home by reading his latest stock report, not daring to look out the car windows lest a stray billboard remind him he had less than twenty-four hours to buy a gift from a store he would never set foot in on an ordinary day. He hadn’t always hated the holidays. He had fond memories of Christmases past spent with his mother in the cottage, but those days were gone. What was the point of the holiday when he had no family to celebrate it with, when the one person who had loved him without condition was dead?

He arrived home to a blissfully quiet house, sat his one lone gift from Trudy on the coffee table, then promptly forgot it. He was thankful for one thing at least: his father was out of the country, so he’d be spared his snide commentary on his son’s disappointing lack of holiday spirit.

Michael pushed away the negative thoughts while he swiftly changed out of his suit and into a comfortable pair of jeans. He pulled on a thick pair of socks for his cold feet, then his favorite long-sleeved sweatshirt to knock off the chill of a dreary December afternoon. Finally, after a long day of pretending to be in the holiday spirit, he was ready to indulge in a pleasant evening of solitary reading. The rest of the city could celebrate to its heart’s content now that he was locked away in his cottage for the night.

Two cups of hot tea and six interesting chapters into his book later, he heard the distant chime of the doorbell downstairs. Angrily, he slammed the book shut and fumed. Could no one leave him the hell alone for even one fucking night?? Then his anger gave way to curiosity. Who had managed to get through the gate without being announced? The bell rang again as he hurried down the stairs. Whoever it was, they were persistent. He peeked through the peep hole in his front door and was surprised at who he saw standing on the other side.

He slung open the door and exchanged pointed stares with his smiling, uninvited visitor. "What are _you_ doing here?" he asked. "You're supposed to be with your family. And how did you get past the gate without being announced??"

Daniel gave him a sheepish look. "Your gate guy is a Lakers fan, and I am, too. We talked ball for awhile, and..." He shrugged. "...he remembered me from the last time. I sort of lied and told him you were expecting me. Now that I'm here, can I come in?"

For a brief moment he actually thought about telling him to go away; if it were anyone else but Daniel, he would have. But for some reason, he found himself suddenly feeling grateful for the company. He stepped aside and motioned for Daniel to come in.

"So you ditched your family?" he asked, not bothering to hide his disapproval. “That's not a very nice thing to do.”

Daniel set a shopping bag in the floor and shrugged off his jacket, handing it to him. "When I told them one of my friends was spending the holidays alone, they understood." He looked around the room and frowned. "No tree?”

“No,” he answered.

“We could always go get one,” Daniel suggested. “The stores are still open.”

“I don’t want a tree. Drop it.” He could tolerate company and conversation, but he drew the line there. The last thing he wanted to do was drag his memories out of the attic and put them on display in his living room, forcing him to relive them, ornament by ornament.

Daniel sighed, rolling his eyes. “Okay, fine. No tree.”

He asked Daniel what was in the festive red shopping bag in the floor. Daniel reached in and pulled out a small, neatly wrapped gift. “Here. I bought you something for Christmas.” Surprised, he thanked him and took the unexpected gift, placing it on the coffee table beside Trudy’s. “I also stopped by the store on the way over and picked up a couple of steaks. I thought we could cook dinner, and then, you know, hang out and talk. Maybe drink a few beers.”

Daniel couldn’t have picked a better reason for coming over uninvited. He loved to cook, especially when there was someone else to cook _with_. “I hope you bought a decent cut of steak,” he said, visibly grimacing at the thought of eating cheap shoe leather for dinner.

“I paid a small fortune for them because I know how picky you are, so yeah, they’re a decent cut…asshole,” Daniel said, smirking and shaking his head.

Michael enjoyed teasing him, and couldn’t help but smile at being called an ‘asshole’ yet again. Perhaps this would turn out to be an enjoyable evening after all.

 

* * *

 

Daniel was sprawled out on the sofa, full of good food and basking in the afterglow of helping prepare a meal alongside Michael. He was an amazing cook, chopping and dicing like one of those chefs on television. He'd spent more time watching _him_ than actually learning anything about cooking. He’d been enthralled with Michael’s hands, his long fingers, and how expertly he used them. He’d soaked up every detail of the man so he could savor each of them later: Michael’s low, soft voice as he’d explained what he was doing, the faint spicy scent of his cologne, the cute cowlick and how it bobbled when he moved his head, how down-to-earth sexy he looked in his faded jeans and sweatshirt—so different from the Armani image he projected at work. Michael seemed to think he had no talent, but what he’d created from just two slabs of raw, bloody meat had not only tasted fabulous, but it’d looked like a work of art sitting on their plates—almost too pretty to eat.

Daniel sighed in contentment, which elicited a knowing smile from Michael, who was similarly relaxing in an armchair next to the sofa, his long legs extended, socked feet crossed at the ankles, and a glass of wine in his beautiful hand. It was probably the wine’s fault the cheesy romantic in him was coming out, or the good food, or the sexy scenery, but whatever the reason, he was in Seventh Heaven. He wasn’t feeling one iota of guilt for ditching his parents on Christmas.

“So, are you going to do it? Redemption House?” Michael’s unexpected question yanked him out of his romantic fantasies and slammed him back into the real world.

“Cameron’s all for it,” he answered. “It’s _me_ you’re going to have to convince. If I’m going to put my ass on the line for you, I need a good reason why.”

Michael looked affronted at his legitimate need for elaboration. “I’m going to pay you a small fortune. Isn’t that reason enough?”

“Joystyk doesn’t paint for money. We paint for people, Michael. People who've been wronged, but who have no voice. If you want us to do this for you, you've got to have a good reason.”

A bone in Michael's jaw clenched; he focused his gaze on his wine glass. Silence overtook the room, growing exponentially larger and more uncomfortable as the seconds ticked by. Daniel decided to wait him out. He patiently watched with interest while Michael worked his way through his familiar decision-making process. It was taking much longer this time. _Must be something pretty bad._

“This conversation has to be confidential,” Michael finally stated, looking up from his wine glass and meeting his gaze. The decision had been made; Michael was going to share.

He nodded his agreement. "Of course. Nothing leaves this room unless you give me permission to share it."

Michael pulled his long legs in, sat his wine glass down and scooted forward in his chair, clasping his hands together, trying to convey a sense of comfort where there wasn't any. He could read that body language like a billboard. Michael was extremely tense and trying not to show it. He experienced a brief moment of regret at insisting upon an explanation, but he pushed it away. His and Cam's asses could land in jail for vandalism, and they would be fired if Daddy Golland found out who did it. They had to have justification for the risk.

"My father put me in Redemption House for the first time when I was twelve."

That softly spoken sentence sent Daniel into a rage, but he quickly contained it, clamped it down, and called upon every bit of his professional training to keep him from opening his big mouth and going on a rant. His job wasn't to voice an opinion, no matter how abhorrent the subject matter. His responsibility was to let his 'patient' talk it through unimpeded.

"Go on," he urged gently, confident that none of his fury showed in his voice or his demeanor.

"There was this illegal Mexican boy named Dari.."

Daniel listened to an all-too-familiar story of a young boy in the middle of his sexual awakening who'd engaged in a bit of exploration. They'd gotten caught. His father's reaction was no surprise, now that he knew what kind of man Paul Golland really was. He fought back his emotions, his intense feelings of empathy for what Michael had endured. He'd undergone his own share of beatings, although they'd been at the hands of his peers, rather than his father. The slurs, the disgust that had looked back at him from a stranger's eyes had been bad enough. Daniel couldn't imagine that coming from his own father.

"I was in there for three days and two nights," Michael said, his monologue continuing in the soft voice of a dispassionate narrator. "They starved me the whole time." He laughed softly. "Of course, if you pray while withholding food, it's called fasting. That makes it okay. But I was a twelve-year-old boy who always hungry. To me, it was starvation.

"They forced me to recite Bible verses, pray with them, attend these ridiculous therapy sessions with both a counselor and a Catholic priest. They only let me sleep for twenty minute periods at a time, then they'd wake me up and start all over again. Looking back, it was like one of those extreme interventions you hear about, or like interrogating a suspected terrorist. All I heard for three solid days was that I was fucked up, but it could all be fixed if I just asked God for help. When I left, the only difference in me was I was angry, and I also left determined no one would ever find out I so messed up inside even God couldn't fix me."

He saw the defensiveness in Michael's eyes. He was silently challenging him to say something, to either justify or condemn what had happened to him at such a vulnerable age. He had to stay professional, no matter how disgusted he felt. "The American Psychiatric Association has stated there isn't enough scientific or empirical evidence to support the use of conversion therapy."

"I don't care what the APA thinks," Michael said. "What do _you_ think?"

"My opinion is it's vile and inhumane the way they treat people in those places, and it's especially cruel to subject children to that stupid shit." He grimaced at letting a little of his outrage to seep into his answer. His opinion had no relevance when it came to helping people deal with their personal issues.

"Good to know." Michael smiled. "But I think my father looked at it like preventative medicine. You know, the same way women get mammograms every year to catch the cancer early and cure it. He sent me every summer for a whole week, the same way other boys went to camp. When I walked out of that place for the last time at seventeen, I had a bottle of antidepressants in one hand, and anti-anxiety meds in the other. I flushed them down the toilet when I got home, and told my father to shove Redemption House up his ass." Michael snickered. "He knocked me around a little, then grounded me for the rest of the summer, but it was worth it."

Michael added nothing else to his explanation, and was now waiting for him to give an answer. Were they going to vandalize Redemption House for him? He'd already made his decision, but when he opened his mouth, that wasn't what came out.

"So, are you gay?" He immediately wanted to bust his own lip and do some permanent damage to his filter, which refused to function the way it was supposed to. It was such an impertinent question, and totally uncalled for in this situation, but he was just so damned curious. He had to know.

Michael didn't seem upset at the question, nor did he answer immediately. He took his good old time, actually giving it some thoughtful consideration, and when he answered, Daniel knew it was with complete honesty.

"I don't know what I am," he said softly.

His first instinct was to ask him how he could not know his own sexual orientation, but his filter kept that one where it belonged. Considering all that Michael had been through with the rape and then Redemption House, it was understandable he might be a little confused, although he couldn't even imagine that kind of uncertainty. He'd known he was different in elementary school. It wasn't much of an answer, but he'd have to take what he could get.

"So, are you going to do it?" Michael asked again.

He nodded. "Joystyk is going to paint for Michael Golland."

* * *

After their heavy conversation, another bottle of wine had made it's way out of Michael's wine cooler, and was now sitting, nearly empty, on the coffee table. He was pleasantly drunk—not sloppy, slobbering, falling down drunk—but he felt lighter than air. He was pretty sure Michael wasn't far behind him.

"Aren't you going to open them?" he asked, nodding in the direction of the two festively wrapped boxes sitting untouched on the coffee table.

Michael shrugged, disinterested.

"You're going to love them both, especially mine," he said, smirking. "But Trudy's is a close second. She got everyone the same thing. Open hers first."

Michael grimaced, like he'd just been asked to clean the toilets in an army barracks with a toothbrush. He ripped off the wrappings, stared at the square tin box in his hands like it had explosives inside it. When he finally pried the lid off, his disappointment at its contents was clearly evident in his disgusted sigh. "Candy and cookies. Exactly what I wanted," he said with dripping sarcasm.

"Quit being a dick," Daniel chided. "Trudy's homemade goodies are the shit."

"Do you have to be so crude?"

He shrugged. "Do you have to be so snobby? Taste one, and then we'll talk."

Michael tentatively picked a moon-shaped one smothered in white confectioners sugar, stared at it for a moment or two, brought it to his nose to sniff it, then finally popped it into his mouth, licking the excess sugar off his fingers, which sent Daniel's sex-starved libido into overdrive. After a few seconds of chewing, he made his pronouncement—"Not bad."—which was Michael's tight-ass way of saying Trudy's cookies were the shit. Daniel's smug level rose ten notches and he was sure it showed on his face.

"And what did you get _her?_ " Daniel asked.

Michael frowned, staring off into the distance, searching for the answer amongst the important intellectual flotsam that he suspected filled this man's brain to near capacity. Christmas gifts were obviously way down on his list of things he cared about.

"A gift card...I think?" he said uncertainly, then shrugged. "I don't know which store, though. I had my driver buy it for me."

Daniel slowly shook his head in disapproval, which deepened Michael's frown even more. "You do realize you have the best secretary in that building, right? She totally kicks ass. She puts up with your shit every day, and all you can get her is a gift card?? I think you should give her a day off, _with pay_ , sometime soon, and tell her how much you appreciate her hard work and dedication. That's how a good supervisor rewards his best employees, and God knows you could use some good PR."

"So, you're asking me to be nice." Michael stared at him a few moments more, then finally rolled his eyes and sighed. "Fine. I'll give her a day off next week. Happy?"

He nodded and smiled. Michael had no idea he'd just been oh-so-gently nudged by his personal therapist into taking one small step toward joining the human race. The only way to become a kind person was to be kind to others. He just hoped Trudy didn't suffer a massive coronary when Michael broke the news to her.

"Now, open mine."

Michael grinned crookedly. "I'm actually interested in this one. I'm curious to see whatever it is inside you think I need, or want, for that matter." He picked up the gift and shook it, gently at first, then a bit harder when it failed to make any noise. He stared at it a while longer, pursed his lips, then shook it closer to his ear, listening for any minute sounds he might have missed before. "It's a gadget of some sort," he said thoughtfully. "Probably one of those silly things a person doesn't really need, but it looks interesting sitting on your desk."

Daniel said nothing, happier to let him go on being totally wrong.

"I have no clue what this is," he said finally, frowning, then proceeded to rip the paper off, revealing a solid white box with absolutely no hints as to what was inside it, or what company made it. He glanced Daniel's way. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

His smug grinned widened a little more. He definitely got some small satisfaction from watching Mr. Control Freak step outside his comfort zone. He would have to think about the psychological implications of that guilty pleasure later on, when he wasn't distracted by the buzz of excellent wine and extreme horniness.

Michael pried the lid open and pulled out the gift, which was completely swaddled in thick layers of white tissue paper. Sighing, he ripped and yanked and sighed some more, before finally tossing the tissue aside and revealing his gift. "Oh, wow. Just what I needed: another coffee cup." He read aloud the writing on the front of the mug, then snorted sarcastically. "Have a nice day'. Really, Daniel? You spent your hard-earned money on this??"

"Let's take it over to that mirror," he said, nodding toward the front entryway.

He wobbled a bit when he stood, and noticed Michael wasn't striding across the floor with his usual bold, arrogant steps either. When they were both standing in front of the small mirror, Daniel instructed him to pretend like he was drinking from the cup, but to watch himself in the mirror while doing it. Michael raised a snooty eyebrow, but obeyed. The instant he saw what was on the bottom of the mug, his haughty demeanor instantly vanished. A wide, white, and beautiful smile took over his face, transforming him from a brooding Armani millionaire into a light-hearted boy. Soft chuckles bubbled up out of his throat, finally morphing into all-out joyous laughter he'd never heard coming from Michael's body. He glowed with pleasure at the knowledge that he'd brought some small bit of happiness into Michael's life with a $15 coffee mug.

"This. Is. Amazing!" Michael blurted out, still chuckling as he looked at the image on the bottom of the cup again: a raised middle finger. Whenever Michael took a drink from this cup, he would flip the bird to whoever happened to be sitting across from him. "Oh, I cannot _wait_ until the next board meeting," he said, winking at Daniel and grinning. "Thank you. This was a fantastic gift."

A blinding white smile and full-throated laughter, all in the space of a minute. _Definitely worth the fifteen dollars._

* * *

 

Another half-bottle of wine was gone. _Oh yeah, we're definitely shit-faced,_  he thought as he looked at Michael lounging lazily across from him in his soft chair, his long legs all stretched out in front of him, socked feet crossed at the ankles, a calm, happy expression on his face. He looked more relaxed than Daniel had ever saw him.

"I'm an asshole." That proclamation came out of nowhere and interrupted the drunken and contented silence that had settled over them since opening the gifts. "I didn't get you anything for Christmas," Michael added softly. "You got me that fucking amazing gift and I didn't get you shit."

He smiled at Michael's profanity-laced confession. He hated loud-mouth drunks who only wanted to fight when they got loaded, so he was pleased to find that his arrogant, sometimes asshole-ish, friend was a nice, friendly drunk. A little foul-mouthed, but he found that to be cute. _He's so sweet_. He'd had this idea in his head that a drunk Michael would be an even more arrogant and nasty version of everyday Michael. He'd been wrong. The more he learned about his friend, the more he was forced to let go of his preconceived notions about him.

"Christmas is about giving, not receiving," Daniel said.

"Bullshit," came the soft reply. Michael scooted himself into a sitting position, and he wondered where he found the motivation to do it. He never wanted to move from this sofa. In fact, the thing was calling his name and begging him to stretch out on it and call it a night. "I have something I can give you," Michael said. "I own a private suite at the Staples Center. We use it to entertain out-of-town executives, reward people in the company for what the fuck ever, I don't know. It has a wet bar, comfortable chairs, a good view of the court, huge-ass monitors all over the walls. You and seventeen of your closest friends can watch the Lakers the next time they're in town. I'll check to see when it's available and I'll let you know."

Daniel's mouth dropped open at the extravagance of the gift. Those private suites were for the elite in Los Angeles. Never in a million years did he ever see himself having enough money to buy one, or even rent one for a night. "Jesus Fucking Christ on a cross, thank you!" he said, stunned. "It's too damned extravagant, but shit, if you're offering, I'll take it."

Michael grinned. "You're welcome."

 _Jesus._  He was a goner, a fucking goner. He was eyeball-deep in love with this man, and not because he was filthy rich or because he was drop-dead gorgeous. He was enthralled by the complexity of him, by the many layers of Michael Golland he was slowly discovering as he got to know him. But sometimes he wondered if he would ever truly know him.

"I have a favor to ask."

Daniel mustered up enough energy to raise an eyebrow in curiosity. "A favor? From me??"

Michael sighed. "I hate to have to ask, but I need a recommendation for a good attorney. I thought your father could help me out."

He sensed the seriousness of his request, despite his current drunken state, since the normal-speaking Michael had returned, sans profanity. Regardless, a sarcastic chuckle escaped before he could stop it. "My dad pretty much can't stand you, Michael. I don't foresee him helping you with anything except picking out curtains for your jail cell." _Fuck, did I really just say that?? Damned fucking defective filter!_

"Jail cells don't have curtains," he countered, chuckling. "I know that first-hand, remember? But I was hoping your father would have enough personal and professional integrity to put aside his feelings for me and assist me in finding suitable counsel. I don't trust any of GEM's attorneys. I need one who won't get down on his knees and suck my father's dick at the drop of a hat. I need someone with impeccable ethics who is immune to bribery and intimidation. In other words, I need an attorney who hates my father as much as I do. I figured your dad would know plenty of people who feel the same way." Michael fixed his gaze on his face, and he looked stone-cold sober to him. "This is important, Daniel. You have no idea how important, and unfortunately, I can't give you any of the details."

He hadn't been joking. His dad despised Michael, even though he'd never met him. It was going to take a hell of a lot of persuasion and manipulation on his part to get him to even consider helping out a man who took up a huge chunk of space in his filing cabinet at work. But, this obviously was extremely important to Michael, so he'd give it his best shot.

"I'll see what I can do," Daniel assured him.

"Thank you." Then just as suddenly as it had appeared, the seriousness was gone. "You're fucking drunk," Michael added, smirking. "Your ass is sleeping in my guest room tonight."

No way he could make it up those stairs. "I'm fine right where I'm at. Just get me a blanket and I'm good to go."

Michael unsteadily rose from the chair, and Daniel wondered if he would make it up the stairs. He didn't have the energy or the motivation to turn around and find out. A few minutes later, a soft, fuzzy blanket billowed down out of the air and settled over him. He was drunk, content, and blissfully happy now that he was warm and cozy on Michael's comfortable couch.

"I wanted to thank you for having the balls to lie your way past my gate man," Michael said softly, towering over him and regarding him kindly, despite the reminder of how he'd deceitfully finagled his way into Michael's evening. "Christmas was actually enjoyable for once. Thank you."

He smiled sleepily. "And I wanted to thank _you_ for getting me drunk enough to agree to ask my dad to help you find an attorney. Well played, Michael. Merry Christmas."

Michael nodded, a mischievous smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Merry Christmas to you, too."

 

**MICHAEL'S NEW COFFEE MUG**

 

 

 


	24. Defiance

_“You’re a little distracted today. Is something bothering you?”_

_**Not something, but someone,** I thought. I shrugged in answer, not sure whether I should share this new thing with Jack._

_“Remember how I told you horses can sense when something is wrong with you? You don’t want to get on Apache’s back today if you’ve got something weighing on your mind.”_

_I squirmed. This was something totally new for me. It felt strange just thinking about it, let alone telling someone else. But if I were to be completely honest, there was no one else I could even think of telling, except for Jack—certainly not my parents or the one lone boy at school who still talked to me from time to time._

_“You can tell me anything. You know that, right?”_

_I knew that. I’d told Jack I liked boys, after all, and he’d been completely cool about it. Truth was, I was itching to tell someone who would understand._ _“There’s a new boy at school. His name is Chris,” I said, hesitant to continue._

_Jack gave me a knowing look. “And you like him…a lot?”_

_I nodded, feeling my cheeks reddening._

_“Does he like you the same way?” Jack asked, and I heard nothing but curiosity in his question. No judgments, no disapproval, no indication a lecture was coming._

_I shrugged again. “I don’t know. I haven’t had a chance to even talk to him yet. We only have one class together, and—“ I stopped. Now that I’d said it out loud, I realized how stupid I sounded. I was crushing on a boy who hadn’t even noticed I was alive, and who apparently couldn’t be bothered with a simple hello, even though we sat right beside each other in English class._

_“And what?” Jack asked._

_I shook my head, suddenly feeling depressed. “And nothing. He probably likes girls, like they all do at my school.”_

_I often lay in bed at night wondering if I was destined to be the only gay boy in my class. With nearly two hundred kids in a building, surely one of them would be like me. But if such a boy existed, I’d yet to find him. In my daydreams, this new boy, Chris, was just like me, and was just as lonely, wanting nothing more than to make a new friend at his new school, a new friend who would accept him for who he really was inside. I longed to be that friend. I imagined telling him I was gay, too, just before he kissed me._

_I squirmed under Jack’s thoughtful stare. When he finally spoke, he gave me some very good advice, and I was glad I’d opened up to him. He said the only way to find out was for me to just talk to Chris, but he warned that the discovery process had to be handled very carefully. Like I didn’t know that already?? I’d been on the receiving end of an angry fist. I had no desire to incite this new boy to violence. Jack advised opening the conversation with safe topics: Where did he live before moving here? Does he play sports? Does he like the Lakers? Is he interested in horses?_

_Jack winked, with a sly grin. “And if he’s interested in horses, then you can bring him with you one Saturday and you two can ride.”_

_My mouth dropped open in shock; my heart beat wildly with excitement. I was going to rub raw places on my knees from all the praying I was going to do, praying that Chris loved horses and would eagerly accept my invitation to come ride with me. And if he didn’t know anything about horses, but was curious, I would teach him, just like Jack had taught me. I smiled at the thought._

_“Okay, so have you thought ahead to what you’re going to do if you find out he is gay? Do you have a plan on how to proceed from there?”_

_Plan?? Hell no, I didn’t have a plan. I supposed we’d hang out, talk about stuff, maybe shoot ball, all the things that regular boys do together. **But you’re not a regular boy,** that annoying voice inside my head pointed out very wisely. **You’re different, a very different boy.**_ _“I guess we’ll just hang out and do normal guy stuff,” I answered, shrugging._

_“Hanging out is not what I’m talking about, Daniel. I’m talking about two hormonal boys who really like each other.” Jack chuckled. “Just playing ball or riding horses isn’t going to be enough, know what I mean?”_

_Oh no. Was Jack actually going to make me sit through a birds-and-the-bees talk?? I thought he was more chill than that._

_“I can tell by the look on your face you want me to shut up right now, but I’m going to pretend I didn’t see it.” The amusement disappeared from his expression. He squatted down until he was eye-level with me. “I’m not going to give you a lecture about sex.” He rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “I was a hormonal boy once and I know how that feels. I know what goes through your mind at night. What I’m talking about is…”_

_He hesitated, chewed his cheek, like he was unsure whether he should finish his thought._

_“What?” I asked._

_“I’m talking about…” He sighed and then grimaced. “…technique. Skills.”_

_I narrowed my eyes and frowned in confusion. Technique? Skills??_

_“Okay, take these horses for instance.” He gestured to where Apache was standing, happily eating his oats and oblivious to the potentially embarrassing conversation taking place just a few yards from his swishing tail. “ You didn’t know a thing about them when you first came here. Of course, you knew they could be ridden, and in your imagination you felt you already knew how to ride. But imagining something is quite a bit different from actually doing it, especially if you don’t possess the necessary skills. You had to learn how to ride, then you practiced until you got really good at it, which you have.” He ruffled my hair. “I’m very proud of the progress you’ve made, by the way. You’re an excellent equestrian for such a young fellow.”_

_I glowed from the compliment, but at the same time wondered what that had to do with whatever point he was trying to make. “I’d like to ride Apache sometime today, so could you maybe hurry this along a little?” I suggested, letting a bit of teenage attitude seep into my voice._

_He gave me a warning look, but I knew he wasn’t really angry. “Okay. I’m just going to come right out and ask. Have you ever kissed anyone? Not on the cheek, I mean on the lips.”_

_I felt a blush creep up my neck, but still, what a stupid question. Who was I going to kiss? It wasn’t like I had a whole slew of willing candidates lined up for the chance. Kissing was something I dreamed about doing, probably like every other boy, but instinctively I knew it would be a very long time before I actually did it. Hell, I was lucky if I managed to sneak a look at a boy’s ass in the gym locker room. That was the riskiest thing I’d ever attempted, and I would have gotten beaten into a bloody pulp if I’d gotten caught._

_“If Chris does happen to be gay, or if you ever do happen to be in a situation where things might start to get a little heavy, then you don’t want to mess it up, do you? Kissing is a skill, Daniel, just like tack and riding are skills. You can learn to do both of those very well, if you’re taught properly. I know that to you I probably seem pretty ancient, a guy with one foot already in the grave, but I know about this, just like I know all about horses. Just like I’ve taught you how to ride, I can also teach you how to kiss…if you want to learn.”_

_I didn’t know what to say to that. He was a lot older than me, and some small part of me felt I should be creeped out by his suggestion, but strangely, I wasn’t. I was curious. I should tell him no, but I didn't want to._ _I guess he took my hesitation to mean I was okay with it, because before I knew what was happening, his lips touched mine, and it didn't feel anything like I'd imagined. It felt a whole lot better._

 

Daniel awoke with a start, his heart pounding and feeling shaky all over, his cock hard enough to cut diamonds.

“Fuck you,” he hissed angrily into the darkness, as if Jack could really hear him, like the asshole might actually be wounded by the sound of his fury, which was ridiculous. He hadn’t seen or spoken to Jack in twelve years. He didn’t know if he was dead or alive. All he knew was he no longer lived next door to their home in Santa Paula.

This particular childhood nightmare always left him feeling dirty, and with an ache between his legs that shamed him to the core. Why the fuck did he wake up aroused from that dream every single fucking time? It wasn’t like he was even remotely attracted to the lying prick, so why did his body insist on betraying him like this?? He violently ripped the sheet off, shot up from the bed, and stormed to the shower. He needed the water to be as icy cold as he could stand it. That was the only way to get rid of the boner, as well as the filthy remnants of the dream. But even then, even after he’d emerge from the shower, his dick limp, his body shaking relentlessly from the chill, even then, the lingering shame would haunt him for days afterwards.

 _First the shower,_ he told himself. _Then wrap up in a blanket until the shaking stops. Then stay up and draw as long as it takes. You’ve done this before. You can get through this._

 

* * *

 

The 27th of December: his own personal D-Day. Michael sighed, knowing he was being juvenile and overly dramatic, but the past seven days without his father breathing down his neck had been something close to paradise. He’d felt free and more relaxed than he had in a long time. He supposed that Daniel had a little to do with his newfound serenity. Despite the mild hangover, Christmas had actually been pleasant this year. Try as he might, he couldn’t think of a single reason why he should be glad about his father’s return. When he arrived home from work that night, Michael found him sitting on his sofa, uninvited, and reading one of his books.

"The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People," his father said, chuckling and tossing the self-help book on the coffee table. "Complete nonsense. You're wasting your time reading this tripe because you lack the self-discipline to master even _one_ measly habit." He smiled. "You'll never make it to seven."

 _A week out of the country wasn't nearly long enough,_  he thought as he hung up his coat and thought about how to respond. "I didn't get arrested while you were gone, so that's an improvement, right?" He plastered his best fake smile on his face and sat down in the armchair across from his father. There was a reason for this unannounced visit, and he knew it wasn't to inquire after his health.

His father's smile vanished. "No, you didn't get arrested, but you had that queer over here on my property while I was gone. That's just as bad. What was he doing here?”

Enough was enough. He was twenty-six years old and he was damned if he was going to let his father continue to try and choose his friends like he had when he was little. “Your property?” he said softly. “Surely I don’t need to remind you of the terms of mother’s will. I have an easement, and Daniel was never on your property the entire time he was here.”

His mother had willed him her cottage, the stables and the surrounding fifteen acres, and because she’d apparently known what a dickhead her husband was, she’d insisted on an easement, too. It allowed him free use of the road entering the grounds of their estate. His father had no authority to stop Daniel—or anyone else—from visiting him at his home or the stables.

“What was he doing here?” 

“Christmas Eve,” he answered. “We made dinner, then got drunk. He passed out on my couch and left the next morning. Anything else you want to know?”

His father never took smart-mouthed defiance very well. “Have I not made myself clear?” He sat forward, drilling his angry gaze into Michael’s eyes. “I want him out of my company, but I can’t seem to accomplish that because you can’t do your damned job. So, instead, I want him to stay the hell away from me, the hell away from my property, and the hell away from _you._ ”

Michael was through with this absurd conversation; he was through being made to feel like a teenager asking permission to have an overnight. “Number one: he is never around you. Number two: he was nowhere near your property. And Number three: I’m an adult, and you no longer have the authority to choose who I hang out with.” He stood up. “I have to change and see to Claire. You can let yourself out.”

He turned and walked away knowing he’d just made things more difficult for himself, but he really didn’t give one big shit about it. Daniel was his friend now. His father was just going to have to get the fuck over it.

 

* * *

 

After his time in the stables with Claire, he felt calmer than he had all day. Back at the cottage, he phoned Daniel and they chatted about their “redecorating project”. He and Cam had decided to vandalize Redemption House on New Year’s Eve, sometime after midnight. Daniel reasoned that law enforcement would be focusing on DUI road patrols and monitoring the gazillion bars in Los Angeles, and that a religious counseling center would be way down on their list of places to watch. It made sense, but he still worried.

“Just don’t get caught,” he said into the phone.

He heard a chuckle on the other end. _“We never get caught.”_

Michael laughed at his joke and their conversation continued for many more minutes. He found it odd he now enjoyed talking on the phone, when he’d always hated it before. In fact, he found a lot of things odd these days—the oddest of all was that he had a friend, a _true_ friend, for the first time in his life.

 

* * *

  
He had one last phone call to make before he called it a night. He punched in the number and waited, smiling smugly at how quickly she answered. She never let him ring more than twice because she knew what he wanted, and she wanted it just as badly. Except this time, she was going to get something completely unexpected.

“Anne? I need to see you.”

 


	25. The Contract

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anne Marie Parris is being played by Emmy Rossum.

Now that all the Christmas nonsense was out of the way, Michael could finally get down to business. His future was at stake; everything was riding on his ability to swallow his pride (and his nausea) and convince Anne it was in her best financial interests to be his fake girlfriend.

He rolled his eyes to an empty room and chuckled sarcastically at how absurd that sounded. He might as well laugh about it. Otherwise, the fury at being out-maneuvered by his father would send him into a rage capable of tearing the hardwood planks off his living room floor with his bare hands. To win this battle of wills he had to stay calm and focused. Whatever he had to endure to get that trust fund, he would do it. He might have to have some major dental work done afterwards to repair the damage from grinding his teeth, but eight figures could buy him one hell of a brand new smile.

He took another gulp of wine to steady his nerves and fuel his courage. He rarely ever drank alcohol this late in the evening, but these were desperate times. The thought of a woman basically taking over his life for the next three and a half years was horrifying, but if he allowed himself to dwell on it, he’d sink into a defeated depression and his father would win.

The sound of the doorbell jerked him into reality. He took a deep, cleansing breath—which did nothing to dispel the hard knot of anxiety in the pit of his stomach—and opened the door to his future.

He raised a critical eyebrow as she smiled and swept past him. Her long, flowing dark hair—one of her best assets—was now pulled back into an unattractive ponytail, a style more fitting a teenager. She was wearing minimal makeup, which gave her the appearance of a corpse-in-waiting. Plus, he’d never seen her dressed so casually before: skin tight jeans with a see-through shirt barely covering her stomach, layered under a one-size-too-small cheap sweater that looked like it came off the rack at Target. If Anne was going to be his girlfriend she was going to have to turn her fashion sense up a considerable number of notches.

“What?” she asked, apparently noticing his look of distaste. “You said we weren’t going out or doing a scene, and not to dress up. I’m comfortable.”

It was true he’d specified this wasn’t a formal date, but surely the woman had a nice pair of slacks and a silk blouse hanging somewhere in her closet. _Pick your battles, Michael._ He sighed at the wisdom of that inner voice and swallowed down the sarcastic retort on the tip of his tongue. “It’s fine,” he said, gesturing to the sofa. “Have a seat. I have a business proposition for you.”

She settled into one corner of the sofa, legs crossed at the knee, one foot bouncing out a rhythm to a song only she could hear. He was about to launch into his spiel when he noticed her shoes. _Good god._ Was it his destiny to be surrounded by people with absolutely no taste in footwear?? She was wearing black Converse—the same kitschy shoes Daniel favored. Was the God of Wall Street trying to tell him something? Perhaps he should get over his fashion outrage and just check out their stock like he’d been promising himself he would.

“A business proposition?” She raised a curious eyebrow. “This sounds like it might take a while.” She slid the Converse off her feet and tucked her legs beneath her like a pretzel, which conjured up some very interesting scenarios in his mind for their next scene together. Perhaps it was time to purchase a hog-tie system. _Focus, Michael._

He settled on the sofa opposite her, a glass coffee table separating them. “Before we get into that, I have to ask you something, and if you lie to me about this, we’re through.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “Okay.”

He was somewhat confident he already knew what her answer would be, but this was too important to take on faith. He needed to watch her eyes, her expression, her body language to assure himself, without any doubt, that she was telling the truth.

“Have you had sex with my father? And oral sex counts.”

Her jaw dropped; her shock looked real. “Are you serious?”

He held her gaze and nodded. “Very.”

“No, I have never had sex with your father,” she answered in a firm, steady voice. “Of course I know who he is— _everyone_ in LA knows who he is—but I’ve never met him in person.”

He studied her, taking note of her body language, her steady gaze, the absence of nervous tics, and decided she was telling the truth. After all, it wasn’t like she ran in the same social circles as his father. The idea of his billionaire Bible-thumping daddy hooking up with an elementary public school teacher who liked to be tied up and whipped was pretty farfetched. Even his father had limits.

“And no offense to your dad,” she continued with a smirk. “—because he’s an amazing person who’s done a lot of good things for this community—but he’s an old man, and wrinkly dicks just don’t do a thing for me.” She winked. “I like ‘em young, hung and rough, in that order.”

He was surprised to feel the heat of a blush creep up his neck, which confused and angered him. He didn’t give a shit what any woman thought about him, Anne included; he only wanted them to submit to him and keep their useless opinions to themselves while doing so. Also, her idea that his father was an amazing person needed to be addressed, but he decided to leave that until later, dependent upon whether she agreed to sign on the dotted line.

“Okay. I believe you.”

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Uncertainty around a woman was unfamiliar territory for him; he’d always issued commands, demanded adherence, and tolerated no differences of opinion. The women in his life either obeyed him or they got dumped on their gold digger asses. Trudy was the only woman who got a pass from him on disobedience and that was only because the EEOC wouldn’t allow him to fire her just for having tits and a vagina. Suddenly, he wanted to run out of his penthouse and back to his cottage and the safety of Claire’s stall—that, or crash through his patio doors and jump off the roof. This situation was testing the limits of his patience and undermining his confidence, which pissed him the hell off. _Eight figures, Michael! EIGHT FIGURES!! Stay focused!_

He’d rehearsed what he was going to say, but now that he was sitting in front of her, he couldn’t help but wonder what her reaction would be. If she told him to shove his absurd idea up his ass and stormed out, he was destined to live the rest of his life in poverty, because he couldn’t even imagine spending the next three and a half years with any of the other whores he knew. Anne was his first, last, and _only_ , choice.

He decided bluntness was the best approach. “Here’s the proposition: I need a fake girlfriend.”

She was trying not to laugh, so before she busted out into hysterics he filled her in on the details of his trust fund and the new conditions his father had imposed upon it.

Her mouth dropped open again. “This is a joke, right?”

“Unfortunately, no. My father is determined I become a respected member of the community and this is his twisted way of accomplishing that. If I want that money, I have to do this, and I _really_ want that money, Anne. I _need_ it.”

He was perilously close to sounding like a spoiled, whiny child begging his mommy for a piece of candy, so he shut up and gave her some quiet time to gather her thoughts. She was staring across the room, but her gaze wasn’t focused on his furnishings—she was thoughtfully considering her decision. The lengthening silence irritated him. He loathed the fact that his entire future depended on this woman sitting across from him. If she refused him, he briefly considered violence—or perhaps even blackmail—to get what he wanted, but quickly ruled them both out. His stockade wouldn’t fit in a 6x8 concrete cell.

Finally, she looked his way. “You have a ton of beautiful, wealthy women at your beck and call. Why me?”

Her question took him by surprise. His desperation to accumulate a massive amount of wealth—and consequently his freedom from beneath his father’s boot—was his main motivation but, instinctively he knew he had to come up with a more compelling reason than his need to weed out the gold digging cunts. He sensed her decision was contingent upon the depth and sincerity of his answer. In the end, there’d been only one factor he’d considered when deciding who to choose.

“You said I made you sublimely happy. No one has ever said that to me before. I felt it would be a good starting point.”

She smiled, her eyes softening to a sappy brown. “I’m interested.” In an instant, the heavy ball of lead in his stomach disappeared. “But. . .I need a _lot_ more details before I agree to this.”

“Of course. We can draw up a tentative contract and enter into negotiations to ensure we both get what we want out of this—just like a business deal. When we get something we both can live with, we sign it, and it’s official.”

“What if we _don’t_ get something we can both live with? Will I still be part of your life if I ultimately decide against this?” She smiled apologetically. “I need to know where I stand with you before we go any further, Michael.”

Despite his irritation, he felt a small sliver of admiration for her. He sensed she wasn’t going to be as easy to manipulate as his other whores, but he felt confident that once they entered into negotiations, his superior business acumen would win the day. He could afford a little generosity.

“Despite the outcome of this conversation we _will_ continue to see each other.”

She smiled and unfolded her legs, sitting up straight, rubbing her hands together in anticipation, her expression eager. “Great. Let’s get started.”

He wished he could muster up the same level of enthusiasm. Instead, he rose and went to the kitchen, bringing back a piece of paper and two pens—red and black ink—from his junk drawer. He laid everything on the glass coffee table between them. She scooted forward to the edge of the sofa, ready to begin. He turned the paper so it was oriented landscape, like on a printer, and drew a dividing line down the center of it—one half for his demands, the other half for hers.

“I’ll go first.” He chose the black pen and wrote a shortened version of his first demand. “I insist upon complete discretion. No one—your family, friends, co-workers, _no one_ —can know this is not a legitimate relationship. If we’re going to fool my father, we have to fool everyone. Daniel is the only one who knows, and that’s because it was his idea. But we can trust him. He knows how important this is to me. He won’t tell anyone.”

She nodded. “I agree to that. And if you trust Daniel, then I trust him, too.” He handed her the red pen, instructed her to write the word ‘Agree’ and then initial it. He signed his initials beside hers.

“Your turn,” he said.

She grinned and winked. “The sex. I want it to continue.”

He was surprised, but pleased. He needed the physical and emotional release he got from bondage like he needed air to breathe. “I agree whole-heartedly.” He wrote the word ‘Agree’ and initialed it. She did the same.

His turn. After seeing her first demand, he decided his preconceived list needed some tweaking. “Since the sex is going to continue, I will be the _only_ man you have it with from now on.”

A soft chuckle. “You’re the only man _worthy_ enough to beat my ass. Agreed.” He tried to ignore the small gleam of pleasure her words gave him as they both signed and initialed their agreement.

“And since we’re on that topic,” she said, “I insist you stop having sex with those airhead bimbos you parade around town all the time. _I_ will be your main squeeze from now on.”

He tried not to think of the years of mind-numbing monogamy that lay ahead as he agreed and initialed. 

Number three. “You’ll have to attend public and private events with me,” he said, “so you have to be available whenever I need you. The more we’re seen together, the better.”

She bit her lip and frowned. “I agree with that last part, but the problem is I’m a teacher. Sometimes I have parent conferences after school, or I have to stay late for meetings or other stuff going on. It’s just not realistic to expect me to drop whatever I’m doing. So, maybe I should get some excused absences. Maybe two a month? Is that reasonable?”

He bristled, but decided that loosening up his time requirements was a small price to pay for his financial freedom. She added it to her side; he agreed and initialed.

“I feel it’s only fair that if you get two excused absences, then I get two, as well,” he said. She agreed to his impromptu fifth demand and initialed.

“Your turn,” he said. “Number four.”

He watched her hesitate, take a deep breath and slowly let it out. Silent alarms went off inside his head.

“I want you to improve your skills in the bedroom so you can become an even better dominant.”

His first instinct was to go on the attack. He was incensed that she had the nerve to criticize him. Behind his bedroom doors, he was in charge; their scenes together were always done his way, and she knew this. Besides, he thought he made her “sublimely happy”, so what was there to improve?

“You’re already amazing, but there’s some room for improvement, Michael. For instance, we don’t use safe words, and we should. That’s for _your_ protection as well as mine. You also don’t provide aftercare for me, and I want that. I want to give _you_ aftercare, too.”

He sat back, fuming. This was the first major snag and he wasn’t sure they could get past it. Asking him to change the way he did things was just her trying to dictate how their scenes should go—basically, his submissive was issuing orders, and that was not acceptable. And the aftercare shit sounded way too intimate for his comfort. The thought of having to touch her in that way made him queasy.

“I don’t agree to that,” he said.

She laid her pen down on the table with a sigh. “Then we have nothing further to negotiate.”

He glared at her as she slipped her feet into her tacky Converse and prepared to leave. The bitch had him by the balls and she knew it. He had no choice but to give her what she wanted. He was so incredibly fucked, because they still hadn’t negotiated a price for her services. He had a feeling this was going to get expensive.

“Wait,” he said as she rose from the sofa. “I’ll agree.”

She sat back down. He expected her to gloat over her victory but, surprisingly, she didn’t. She simply nodded, wrote out her demand, and pushed the paper to him so he could agree and initial. He added the words “under duress” in parentheses, but she scribbled them out, chuckling softly.

“I’m not twisting your arm, Michael. There’s no duress here.”

 _Fine, bitch. Now it’s **my** turn to tighten the screws._ “You will sign an NDA—a non-disclosure agreement—stating that if you ever breathe a word of my private affairs to anyone, I will sue your ass so hard you’ll have nothing left but the clothes on your back.”

She sighed his name. “Michael. You don’t have to threaten me. I would never violate your privacy, but I understand your need to be sure. I’d feel the same way if I were in your position. I’ll be happy to sign one.”

After they agreed and initialed she wrote number five on her side of the paper. “You will not try to control my life outside the bedroom. I go where I want when I want. I eat what I want. I dress how I want—however I will accept your input when I’m going to an event with you. I talk to whomever I want to talk to, and you will not be that jealous fake boyfriend who throws a temper tantrum over it. I will give _you_ the same considerations, of course.”

Like he had time to micromanage every minute of her life. As long as she obeyed him as his submissive and managed to convince his father, and all of LA, that she was head-over-heels in love with him, he didn’t give a shit what she did the rest of the time. In fact, he’d be quite happy if she’d leave him the hell alone as much as possible. He agreed and initialed.

Now they were down to the final consideration, the most important clause of the contract: compensation. Michael had tried to prepare himself—gold digging whores were ruthless and without conscience. He knew this was going to hurt. . . _a lot_. He drew in a breath and mentally prepared himself for a brutal battle. He was going to err on the side of optimism and start small.

“I’m prepared to give you 1% of my trust fund in payment for your services. I don’t know the exact amount I’m getting, but I know it’s eight figures. That means you’ll get a nice six figure sum for this.”  He put pen to paper, but before he could even write the number six she gripped his hand and stopped him.

“I don’t want your money.”

His jaw hit the floor. Not literally, of course, but he was completely stunned by her refusal. All of the other women he knew would have demanded _more_ than 1%. He blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “That’s crazy! No one would do this for free.”

She smiled and released his hand. “I guess I’m crazy then, because I will not accept any payment for this.”

“Why not?” It was a stupid question, and even as he asked it, he wondered why he cared. He should be jumping for joy this wasn’t going to cost him as much as he’d thought it would.

“Duh. I’m a public servant. There’s no way I could explain that kind of income to the IRS, not on a teacher’s salary.” She snickered. “They’d think I was selling crack or turning tricks on the side.”

She had a point. “I could set up a bank account in my name then, and just give you the bank card to it.” _Shut up, Michael! She doesn’t want your money, so just let it go!_

She shook her head. “I’m fine, really. I don’t need any payment except maybe for the clothes I’ll have to wear if we go to some fancy party or something. You could pay for _that,_ I guess.”

Still in a state of shock, he nevertheless managed to help hammer out the specific expenses he would be responsible for. They decided he would pay for clothes, jewelry, shoes, purses, manicures and hairstyling whenever he needed her to attend a formal event with him. He suggested $2,000 per event, which she vehemently nixed, insisting that $500 was plenty. He snidely pointed out Michael Golland’s girlfriend wouldn’t be caught dead in a dress that cost under $500, so that figure was way too low. They finally compromised on $1,500 per event—item number six on his side of the contract.

On her side, she stated she wouldn’t accept any payment except for clothes. Still reeling at the idea that she didn’t seem to care about his money, he agreed and initialed it.

“Anything else?” he asked. As far as he was concerned, they were done. Everything important to him had been addressed and agreed to.

“Well. . .” She hesitated, which roused his curiosity. “There _is_ one other thing.”

“What?”

She wrote the answer on her side of the contract as item number seven and turned it around so he could read it: _7\. What about Daniel?_

The question was a punch to the gut. He’d confessed to Father Sebastian he wanted more than friendship from Daniel, but deep down he knew that could never happen. Too much was at stake for him to risk his father discovering him in a compromising situation. He’d lose everything if he gave in to his urges. It hurt to do it, but he drew a line through her sentence and added his own in red ink: _Daniel has no relevance to this contract._

Her features softened; he sensed a lecture coming. “He _is_ relevant. You have feelings for him, Michael.”

“We’re just friends.”

“You’re more than that.”

“No, we’re _not_ more than that. We’re just friends, Anne, and that’s all we’re ever going to be, so drop it.”

She sighed as she agreed and signed her initials. She also added “under duress” in parentheses, but he quickly marked that out, smugly reminding her he wasn’t twisting _her_ arm either.

“Anything else?”

She shook her head.

“Because of the secrecy involved, we can’t have this notarized. We’re just going to have to trust each other’s word,” he said.

“I trust you implicitly.”

Her faith in him was admirable, but he wondered if he was going to make it through three and a half years of this shit. He added a final paragraph stating that if either one of them broke the rules of the contract it would be null and void. She gave her final approval; they both added their signatures to the document and it was done. He sat back, staring silently at a woman who was going to become a huge part of his life starting now. _What the hell have you done??_

“Now what?” she asked.

“Now we start getting to know each other, I suppose.” He shrugged. “Maybe we can come up with some questions, exchange answers and memorize them.”

“Memorization is the least effective method of learning new content,” she said. “I have a better idea. Invite me over to your other house after New Year’s and we’ll get to know each other the old-fashioned way: by spending time together.”

_And so it begins. . ._

 

**ANNE PARRIS (Played by Emmy Rossum)**

 

**MICHAEL'S PENTHOUSE LIVING ROOM, WHERE THE CONTRACT WAS NEGOTIATED**

**THE CONTRACT (I came up with the contract FIRST, and then wrote the chapter around it. lol)**

 

**A BOOK COVER I CREATED OF MICHAEL AND ANNE USING PHOTOSHOP CC 2015**

 


	26. Humiliation

_The office was small and cramped, the chair hard and uncomfortable. I hoped whatever this was didn’t take long, because it was already hurting my back, plus my stomach was empty and cramping._

_I heard the door open and shut behind me. The priest sat down across from me in a soft wing-backed chair, instead of behind his desk. Our legs were only about a foot from touching. He had a folder and pen in his hand. I sighed aloud, not caring whether I was reprimanded for my teenage attitude. I hated this place with its priests and their stupid prayers. I wanted to go home to Claire._

_“Hello, Michael.”_

_I said nothing and refused to smile. I recognized this priest from the first day I arrived—hard to forget someone with red hair that bright. Father Mullen. He was one of the priests who’d prayed over me as I’d laid on the floor of the sanctuary. He’d repeatedly shouted that I was lost, but God could help me find the right path if I only asked. I didn’t like him, but then again, I didn’t like **any** of the people in this place._

_“I have some questions for you.”_

_He opened the folder and shuffled around some papers. We were sitting close enough that I could almost read what was written on the top one. He glanced at me, frowned, and immediately got up and moved his chair a couple of feet farther away. When he was settled again, he crossed his legs and cleared his throat._

_“These questions will help determine the level of spiritual counseling required to help you get better.”_

_Get better? I wasn’t sick._

_“Some of the questions may feel a bit personal, a bit uncomfortable even, but it’s important you answer honestly. We need to determine just how far you’ve strayed from God’s path so we’ll know how best to help you.”_

_He looked right at my face. His eyes were green—almost as bright as his hair— but his stare made me squirm. I looked down at my lap._

_“Are you a virgin?” he asked._

_I looked up in shock._

_“And by that we mean have you had sexual contact in which any of your body parts have penetrated any openings on another person’s body—their mouth, vagina or anus?”_

_I didn’t know what to say. Did what happened with Dari mean I wasn’t a virgin anymore??_

_“I know about the incident that resulted in your admittance here,” he said. “Your father feels you were. . .influenced. . .by the boy. There was no actual consummation of the act; you were just experimenting, exploring. Is that correct?”_

_“Actual consummation?” I asked, confused._

_“That means neither one of you ejaculated, neither one of you came.”_

_I wanted to sink into the floor and disappear. “Yes, that’s correct,” I mumbled._

_He nodded and wrote something on his paper. “Besides this incident, have you had any other sexual contact like I described?”_

_“No.”_

_He wrote a little more. “Do you masturbate?”_

_I felt the heat of a blush creep up my neck and face. I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. I wanted out of this room._

_“Answer the question honestly.”_

_I swallowed nervously. “Yes.”_

_“How often?”_

_“A couple or three times a week,” I answered, shrugging._

_“Where do you masturbate?”_

_What did that have to do with anything? I clenched my teeth and stared at the floor._

_“Are you hungry, Michael?”_

_I nodded. I was starving._

_“Answer the questions and you can have some dinner. Where do you masturbate?”_

_“The shower or in my bed.”_

_“Do you view images of nude women or men while masturbating?”_

_I didn’t want to answer, but I knew I had no choice if I wanted to eat. “No.”_

_“What do you use for lubrication?”_

_My mouth dropped open and I spoke before I thought. “Why do you need to know that??”_

_His lips thinned; his stare hardened. Uncomfortable didn’t even begin to describe what I was feeling. I needed to get out of this room._

_“Answer the question.”_

_I swallowed and clasped my hands together to keep them from shaking. “Soap in the shower. Lotion in the bed.”_

_He wrote a little, then stared at me in silence for an uncomfortably long time. Finally, he asked softly, “What do you think about when you jack off?”_

_“I want to leave now,” I said, trying to hide my growing panic._

_“Do you think about boys?”_

_“I’m not answering any more of your questions.”  I was ashamed to hear fear in my voice._

_“Do you ever slide your fingers inside your ass while you’re doing it?”_

_I shot up out the chair, shocked and scared. “My father would not approve of these questions!” I was on the verge of running from the room. There had to be a public phone somewhere in this place._

_“Sit down!” he ordered. “Your father has complete faith in Redemption House and its staff. Now, sit down or I’ll recommend another week’s stay.”_

_He had the power to make that happen. I couldn’t survive another week in this place. I slowly sat back down._

_He smiled at me; I felt sick to my stomach. He leaned forward. “You should try it next time,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “A little Vaseline and your finger slides right in. Wiggle it around a little while you’re jacking off. It feels good. And, I’d really like it if you’d think of **me** when you do it.” _

_He was waiting for me to say something. I swallowed, fought the urge to cry, and told him what I thought he wanted to hear, because I had to get out of there. “I will.”_

_His smile disappeared in an instant. He settled back in his chair; he was all priest, all business, now. “Masturbation is extremely dangerous, Michael,” he said._

_He leaned forward again and drilled his green gaze right into my face. I wanted to look away, but couldn’t._

_“It might be pleasurable for the moment, but it has serious mental, physical and spiritual consequences. When you masturbate, you reject and twist what God intended to happen only between a husband and wife. You must stop immediately. There are proven methods to help you refrain from committing this particular sin in the future. I’ll make the recommendation to your counselor.”_

_Yeah, whatever. I just wanted him to shut up and let me leave._

_“If you ever want to…talk—” he said, smiling again. “—I’m always available.”_

_I’d kill myself first._

_He shut the folder, tucked it under his arm and stood. I looked up. His dick was hard and poking against his robe._

_“You are not to speak of this conversation with anyone. If you do, I will deny it. I will also present my notes from this interview, which will clearly show you’re a very disturbed little boy who needs long-term, and **intense,** counseling to find God again.” _

_He let the threat hang in the air a few moments, before saying, “You may leave.”_

_I almost tripped over my own feet as I ran for the door._

_“Enjoy your dinner, Michael,” he called._

_  
_ “Hey, what up?”

Daniel’s voice jerked him back to the present, like a bucket of ice water to the face. He turned away from his office windows—it wasn’t like he’d been enjoying the view anyway—and attempted to push the memories from Redemption House out of his mind.

He managed a small smile and acknowledged his friend, still mystified he’d somehow managed to acquire one after all these years. He pushed that puzzle out of his mind, too, and focused on Daniel’s outfit. He was making another questionable fashion statement today, with his snug-fitting (this time) khakis, navy blue winter sweater and matching blue Converse. If only he’d stopped there, he might have approved.

“Your shirt’s hanging out of the bottom of your sweater.”

Daniel was already seated and pulling food from his ridiculous superhero lunch bags. He looked up, one eyebrow arched. “I know. It’s supposed to hang out.”

Michael settled down in the chair opposite him and proceeded to school his misinformed friend in the fine art of fashion. “Daniel, it’s common knowledge that when a shirt has a rounded bottom it’s supposed to be tucked _into_ your trousers.”

He smirked. “Says who?”

“Everyone.”

Daniel shrugged. “Well, _everyone_ is wrong. This is the style right now.”

Sloppiness may be the new style, but it was unacceptable in his world. “So, you’re just a faddist, then.”

Daniel went blank, obviously searching his limited cache of knowledge for a definition. After a few moments, he grinned. “Sounds like I need to invest in a good set of handcuffs and a whip.”

Daniel snickered at his own joke while he luxuriated in the unexpected, but welcomed, throb in his groin. If he’d been alone, he would have indulged himself in a few stolen moments of bondage fantasy: Daniel tied up and at his mercy, the flesh on his ass red from the thrashing, his legs spread w—

 _Stop! You can never have him that way, so just stop thinking about it. You’re just torturing yourself._ The thought depressed him as he remembered the contract with Anne and his promise to be monogamous. Even though he’d finally admitted to himself that a relationship with Daniel was out of the question, he couldn’t seem to stop his imagination from creating an entirely different—and possibly happy?—ending to his pathetic life story.

He choked back a sigh and changed the subject. “What’s for lunch today?”

“Steak subs and salad,” Daniel said.

He was still a little nauseous from his earlier trip down memory lane, but he would force himself to eat, since Daniel’s steak subs were exceptional. Despite their brief exchange over Daniel’s unsuitable wardrobe, he wasn’t really in the mood for small talk. For the majority of their lunch he was quiet while Daniel filled the awkward silences with mundane chatter about his painting, his workout at the gym last night, and the latest water-cooler gossip. He wondered how one person could find so much to talk about, but that was one of the things he liked about Daniel. The guy could talk to anyone about anything, and never seemed ill at ease. He envied Daniel's confidence and warmth—two personality traits he’d probably never cultivate even if he lived to be a hundred.

“You’ve been a little quiet. You all right?” Daniel asked, looking concerned.

He decided to ignore the question. He wasn’t all right, and he was never _going_ to be. Talking about it was a waste of time. “How’s the redecorating project coming along?”

Daniel hesitated before answering. Michael imagined he was debating with his inner therapist on whether to let the change of subject slide. The therapist lost.

“The design is sketched out. Got the supplies. We just need to…” Daniel stopped and lowered his voice.  “Should we even be talking about this here?”

“I had my office swept for bugs this past Friday. It’s clean.”

Daniel laughed. When he realized Michael wasn’t laughing with him, his smile faded.  “That was a joke, right?”

“No.”

Daniel’s mouth gaped open. “What the fuck? He bugs your office??”

“I’m not sure, but my father has an uncanny way of knowing things. I’m just being cautious.”

Daniel shook his head. “I don’t even know how to respond to that.”

He shrugged. He didn’t either. His relationship with his father was beyond rational explanation, which was why he rarely wasted time analyzing it. It was what it was.

Daniel sighed, but continued, “Do you want to know what design we finally settled on?”

He shook his head. “The less I know the better. Just as long as it’s sacrilegious, I’m good.”

Daniel grinned crookedly. “Oh, it definitely is _.”_

The memories from Redemption House were still lingering despite his attempt to forget them. He wondered what Father Mullen would think when he saw Joystyk’s artwork on his precious chapel windows. _Probably get a boner and rush to the bathroom to whack off_.  He smiled inside, because he suddenly had an inspired idea.

“Is it too late to make a small change to the design?”

“No,” Daniel answered. “Whatever you want, we’ll do it.”

He fought against his anger as the image of that prick formed in his mind. “If there’s a priest in it, could you make sure he has bright red hair?”

Daniel’s eyes narrowed. 

“Father Patrick Mullen,” he said, answering his unspoken question.

Daniel studied him for a few moments, obviously debating with his inner therapist again on whether to ask for details. He was starting to recognize the signs—those times in normal conversation when Daniel yearned to whip out his pen and paper and direct his fucked up friend to a therapy couch so he could fix him. He silently willed Daniel to just drop it and move on. The therapist won this time.  
  
“Do you want to talk about Father Mullen?” Daniel asked softly.

“No,” he answered firmly. “But I want him humiliated.”   _Like he humiliated me._

He saw anger in Daniel’s eyes. “Consider it done."

“Thank you.” He could hardly wait until the new year. His father was going to be livid, and one of those pathetic excuses for a priest was going to be stumbling all over himself doing damage control. It wouldn’t change what had happened to him, but it was going to be fun to watch them all squirm.

“Do you want to expose this redecorating project to a wider audience?” Daniel asked, his brief bout of anger now submerged beneath his characteristic smirk. “Because Joystyk can make that happen. We can get this out to the media, if you want.”

“How can you do that without getting caught?” he asked, curious.

The smirk widened into a cocky grin. “Buy a flip phone—it’s called a burner—activate it at some public phone far away from your neighborhood, call in the vandalism, wipe the data and fingerprints from the phone, then beat that motherfucker into a million pieces with a sledgehammer, and throw it all into the Pacific.”

Michael filed that interesting tidbit of information away to think about later, then studied Daniel with his smug smile and unwavering confidence. “I find it a little disturbing that you know how to do something like that, considering your father’s an attorney.”

Daniel snickered. “Well, what dad doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

The idea of Redemption House being publicly disgraced on a wide scale was extremely tempting but, in the end, he decided the risk to Daniel and Cameron wasn’t worth it. “I appreciate the offer, but let’s just keep this local.”

Daniel nodded and began cleaning up lunch.

“So, have you had a chance to talk to your dad about that attorney?”

Daniel grimaced. “Not yet, but I’m heading over there tonight for dinner. Hopefully, I’ll have a name for you tomorrow.”

Michael nodded, but he wasn’t very optimistic. He knew he was pretty close to the top of David Hart’s list of people who shouldn’t be walking around breathing the air of freedom, but he had nothing to lose by trying. He’d done his research after discovering who he was, and had found that David Hart was one of LA’s most effective civil rights attorneys, and was praised by his peers for his principles, determination, patience, and especially his intuitiveness. It was that last trait he was placing all his bets on.

With the end of their lunch looming, he was debating whether to bring up the fact that he now had a fake girlfriend, when Daniel suddenly beat him to it.

“Found the love of your life yet?” Daniel asked, grinning crookedly.

He smiled. “As a matter of fact, I have.”

Daniel’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “Wow. That was fast.”

“Well, you know how love is,” he said, shrugging. “One minute you’re just walking down the street minding your own business, and the next thing you know some random cunt falls madly in love with you.”

Daniel glared at him. “Michael. . .”

He grinned at Daniel’s outrage. Teasing him was almost as much fun as fantasizing about him. “I’ve known her for a while; she’s probably one of the few women I could tolerate for three years without wanting to strangle her.” _As long as she stays the hell away from me as much as possible,_ he silently added.

“Anyone I know?”

“Anne Parris. She’s an elementary school teacher.”

Daniel shook his head. “Never heard of her.”

“She’s respectable. I think she’ll pass muster with my father.”

He hoped. What he didn’t say aloud was that, to his father, a public school teacher was practically a peasant. They were barely hanging on to the bottom rung of the social climbing ladder by their fingernails. But Anne had a clean background—he’d checked—so there was nothing his father could do about it. Anne was his only choice, and he was determined to make this work. Nothing or no one was going to stand in the way of his trust fund disbursement, not even his dick of a father and his class snobbery.

Daniel stood, preparing to go back to work. “You know _my_ plans for New Year’s Eve, so what’s yours?” A snicker. “Cleaning out another junk drawer?”

This time he sighed aloud. “I wish. But, unfortunately, I have this event I’m required to attend, a sort of family tradition thing, I guess you could call it.”

“Is your brother and sister coming in for a visit?”

Like that would ever happen. It’d been over three years since he’d spoken to Cassandra, and he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d had a civil conversation with his brother, Paul.

“No, it’s a business affair,” he clarified. “A bunch of high rollers getting together, rubbing elbows and greasing palms. That sort of thing. We do it every year.”

Daniel grimaced. “Sounds boring.”

Boring wasn’t the right adjective to describe these get-togethers, but Michael didn’t correct him. The truth was much too disturbing for the average, _moral_ person—a person like Daniel—to digest. His father’s annual New Year’s Eve party was a hedonistic cock-fest, an orgy of wealth, power, alcohol and sex, disguised as a legitimate holiday business party for a few of his closest associates. He was dreading it.

“Good luck with your dad tonight,” he said, as Daniel made his way to the doors.

He looked back over his shoulder, and he wasn’t grinning. “Thanks. I’m going to need it.”

After Daniel left, he made his way back to his office windows. He wasn’t a religious man, but today was one of those days he wished he was. He would have had a lot to pray about: that Daniel and Cameron wouldn’t get caught, that Daniel’s dad would put his dislike of him aside long enough to help him, that he could manage to get through the next three years without ditching—or choking—Anne, which would sink him into poverty and, finally, that he could make it through this year’s New Year’s Eve party without wanting to slit his own throat.


	27. "Watch Your Back."

Daniel sat in his car, impatiently calling Cam’s number for the umpteenth time. _Pick up, you punk ass!_ He was running late, and his mom had already peeked out the window once to make sure the car idling in her driveway wasn’t some friendly neighborhood criminal up to no good.

_“What’s up?”_

He blew out a sigh of relief at finally hearing Cam’s voice. “Where have you been??  I’ve been trying to get in touch with you all afternoon!”

_“After my dentist appointment, I went home and turned off my phone to paint. Should I go sit in the time-out corner now, mommy?”_

Normally he would have engaged in a little back-and-forth good-natured arguing with Cam—one of their favorite pastimes—but he had other things on his mind. “We need to talk about that project. The design needs some last minute tweaks.”

_“I’m listening.”_

“The focal point needs to have bright red hair, and for accuracy’s sake, we need to add another design element: a pre-teen boy.”

A deafening silence on Cam’s end was finally followed by a soft curse. He heard anger in Cam’s voice and knew it wasn’t because of the last-minute changes. _“Did this request come from the client?”_

“Yes. Over lunch. The word ‘humiliation’ was mentioned.”

Another barrage of curses poured into his ear. _“I’ll get to work on that right now.”_

“I’ve got dinner with my parents first, then I’ll come over after.” They said their goodbyes and disconnected.

With that problem out of the way, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly, hoping the tension he’d carried around with him all day would leave with it. No such luck. Normally, the warm glow behind the windows of his childhood home would have felt welcoming. Not tonight. He had a lot of new secrets nestled uncomfortably inside him, and his mother was quite adept at getting them out of him when she put her mind to it. He had to be very careful what he said. He also had a major favor to ask on Michael’s behalf, and he was going to have to lie his ass off to his father in the process. 

But, he was extremely good at lying—to _both_ of them—because he’d been doing it most of his life.

 

* * *

  

Daniel lingered just inside the kitchen door and silently watched his mom prepare dinner. She was humming some nameless tune, pausing occasionally to push a section of her short blonde hair behind her ear. Like all kids, he’d taken his mother’s presence in his life for granted. But after getting to know Michael, he’d developed a newfound appreciation for _both_ his parents. He was incredibly lucky. He smiled and coughed softly.

“There you are!” she exclaimed, turning around and giving him a playful glare. “I thought I was going to have to bring your dinner out to your car.”

He laughed and delivered a kiss to her cheek. Her familiar perfume filtered up his nose and wound its way around his heart, tugging at his conscience and making him wish he could be completely honest with her about Michael, and everything else. “I was talking to Cam. . . about work.” The first lie. One of many he would tell tonight. He looked over the ingredients set out on the counter. “Lasagna?”

She nodded. “Want to help?”

Normally he would. He’d always enjoyed working side-by-side with his mom in the kitchen, but that culinary camaraderie was her secret weapon, her way of trying to get inside his heart and nudge him into blabbing everything that was bothering him. Throughout the years, he’d allowed her some limited success with that technique, but there were some secrets her motherly charms would never get out of him. His feelings for Michael, for instance. He wasn’t ready to confess that to his family, plus the man hadn’t even accepted his own sexuality yet. It was impossible to know whether Michael would even be receptive to a romantic relationship with him. The whole situation depressed him if he dwelled on it for too long, so he pushed it out of his mind.

“I can’t. I really have to talk to Dad. It’s important, and it might take a while.”

He turned to leave, but she grabbed his arm. “Wait! We haven’t even caught up yet. How was your Christmas with your friend?”

He swallowed a frustrated sigh, because his mom would pick up on that in a heartbeat. “It was nice. I think I helped make his holiday more enjoyable.”

A sly smile. “His? Is this man important to you?”

“No, Mom. He’s just a friend. He was going to be alone for Christmas. I felt sorry for him.”

An understanding look stole into her eyes. “He has a broken wing?”

He chuckled softly. His mother knew him better than anyone else. He had a long history of nursing broken things back to health. When he was younger, it was animals. As an adult, it was people. “ _Two_ , actually.”

Her eyes filled with the love he’d taken for granted so many times. She smiled fondly and sighed. “Bless his heart. You have so much kindness in you, Daniel. I hope this friend knows how lucky he is to have you in his life.”

He shrugged, embarrassed to feel a blush steal up his neck. Trying to fix the broken parts of people wasn’t something he did for praise. It was a necessity. Helping others was the glue that held his _own_ broken pieces together.

“I really need to talk to Dad. Yell when dinner is ready.” He backed away, looking to make a quick exit before his mom could say anything else, because he could tell by her expression that she didn’t believe a word he’d said about Michael being just a friend.  _Shit._

 

* * *

 

 

He stood outside his dad’s office door and steeled himself for what was coming. Truth was an attorney’s lifeblood. Lying to a lawyer was a stupid thing to do in _any_ circumstance, but lying to a lawyer who was also your dad was taking that stupidity to a whole different level. He was there, but he wasn’t entirely defenseless. Being in the closet for most of his life had taught him to be a very convincing liar. _You can do this. Just remember it’s for a good cause. Michael needs you._ He knocked gently and was immediately given permission to enter.

The first thing he noticed was his dad was chilling, not working. _Maybe this won’t be so bad after all._ He was sitting behind his desk, but he was in jeans and a polo, his socked feet propped up on the corner of it. His laptop was closed. Another good sign.

“Are you busy?”

He pulled his feet off his desk and grimaced. “Supposed to be, but I got sidetracked.” He gestured to the sofa adjacent to his desk.

Daniel settled in and forced himself to meet his father’s gaze. That was one lesson about lying he’d learned pretty quickly as a kid: look them straight in the eyes and blink as little as possible.  “I just wanted to let you know what’s happening at GEM.” His dad’s eyebrow raised slightly; he was paying close attention. “The cat’s out of the bag. They know you’re my father.”

He snickered. “It took them long enough. Who figured it out?”

_Let the lying begin. . ._

“I was introduced to Michael Golland at the company Christmas party. He realized he hadn’t interviewed me, so I imagine he ran to his fancy databases as soon as he got the chance. He called me into his office the next day and accused me of being your spy.”

His dad snickered again. “I’m not surprised it was him, although it wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out you were a plant. Have you seen anything?”

His heart rate quickened. “I’ve kept my eyes and ears open, but I’m getting nothing. No firings, no suspensions, no write-ups, not even water cooler gossip. I suspect they want to get rid of Cameron—and me, of course—but they’ve got nothing on us. We’re the perfect employees.” _Except for Joystyk. . ._

His dad fell silent, thinking. Daniel patiently waited, pondering how to best introduce Michael’s request into their conversation.

“Michael Golland.” The name fell softly from his dad’s lips, which was surprising considering how much he hated him. “What did you think of him?”

 _He’s a beautifully flawed asshole. Sexy as fuck. Intelligent. Funny. Violent. Wildly handsome. Lonely. Sarcastic. Generous. Arrogant. Broken._ He could ponder the complexity of the man for hours, and be quite happy while doing so, but his father was waiting for an answer. “He’s a little bit of a jerk, and a whole lot of arrogant.”

His dad waved his hand in dismissal and sneered. “Eh. That’s all window dressing designed to keep you from seeing who he really is.”  He leaned forward and drilled his steely attorney-gaze into Daniel’s eyes, making him feel like he was being cross-examined in a courtroom. “A word of warning: watch your back with him, Daniel.”

“Why?” 

“Because he’s smart, and he’s a sneaky little shit. Don’t ever trust him.”

 _Well, that ship has already sailed._  He didn’t know how to respond, so he chose to stay silent.

“Do you know anything about his background?”

Oh, he knew a _lot_ about Michael’s family—probably more than his dad did—but he shook his head. “Not really. I just know he’s the youngest of three children, and they’re filthy stinking rich. That’s it.”

His dad leaned back in his office chair, steepling his fingers together, a mannerism carried over from his courtroom litigation days. “I know way more about the Gollands than I should, but that’s because I need to know _first_ what motivates people. Then I can figure out why they do the things they do. Paul Golland Senior is a real piece of work, Daniel. He’s power hungry and ruthless. Between you and me, I think he’s the driving force behind every shady thing that has happened in that company. He puts on a good show for the public, but most people don’t really know him. Michael is his clone, just without all the power.”

Daniel disagreed about the clone part, but he listened patiently, and with pretended interest, while his father summarized what he already knew about Michael’s introduction to GEM at fifteen as a minimum wage employee. He nodded, acting impressed, when told that Michael’s older brother, Paul, was a Yale graduate and practicing attorney, while his sister, Cassandra, was a Dartmouth gal who also practiced law. What he _hadn’t_ known was the details of their respective lives. Paul Jr. lived in Seattle and was a cut-throat divorce attorney. Married, no children. Cassandra practiced in San Francisco, and was a Family Law attorney specializing in child abuse. Single. _Hmmm. Child abuse. That’s interesting._

“And guess who didn’t go to college.”

He pretended to be shocked. “Really? Michael isn’t Ivy League??”

His dad smiled knowingly. “Nope. Obviously his father had other plans for his youngest. He’s been grooming Michael for the CEO chair his whole life. It’s a time-honored tradition in these kinds of families. Choose the most talented of your children to carry on your legacy, make them learn the business from the ground up, force them to interact on a personal level with the employees they will eventually lead, then sit back and watch how they handle it all. Seven years ago, Michael was promoted to head of personnel and that was the end of that. There’s been no movement upward, laterally or even downward during that entire seven years. Think about that for a minute, Daniel. What does that tell you about Michael Golland? About Paul Golland??”

Trying to figure out what made people tick was his passion in life, along with his art. But, he had to admit, he’d not spent any time analyzing Michael’s experiences within the company, focusing instead on his personal life. True, he’d thought it odd that Michael wasn’t an officer in the company, but he wasn’t an expert on corporate personnel structures, so he’d not even given that any serious consideration.

“Maybe Michael’s father realized he wasn’t CEO material?”

His dad barked a laugh. “Hardly. Michael is smart enough to have been an attorney himself. That boy has a dangerous eye for detail. No, with a little bit of mentoring, he could easily run that company.”

 _A dangerous eye for detail._ A chill raced up his back at hearing those words from his dad’s mouth.

“Think, Daniel. Why has Paul Golland thrown up a brick wall in front of his own son, the son he’s been grooming to take over the helm since age fifteen?”

If it wasn’t Michael’s lack of intelligence, or business savvy, then that could only mean. . . _holy shit!_ A crucial piece of the puzzle suddenly slid into place. At that moment, Daniel wanted to smack himself in the head for being so dense. “He’s afraid of him,” he said softly, shocked at the realization. “Because he’s _too_ smart.”

His dad jabbed a finger in his direction and grinned. “Bingo. The way I see it, Paul Senior is terrified of his son gaining any power in that company, so he’s sabotaging him by forcing him to be complicit in these discrimination cases. He’s also weakening his credibility as a potential leader of the company by denying him a position of authority on the board. These are just my personal theories, of course, but they make perfect sense. The real question is. . . _why_ is he so afraid of him? Is it some kind of illogical jealousy, or is there a more compelling reason?”

Now they’d moved into his territory. Analyzing psychological motivations was _his_ lifeblood; he could do this in his sleep. “Psychologically speaking, there’s several possibilities. One, dad’s not ready to retire. He loves the power and senses Michael could easily fill his shoes, so he’s stalling.”

“But that doesn’t explain why he’s not been promoted in seven years, or at least given a seat on the board,” his dad interjected. Daniel shrugged, because he had no explanation for that either.

“Two, there could be some sort of family dysfunction that is affecting the trust between them.”  _Family dysfunction_. The phrase was laughable, and completely inadequate to describe the personal dynamics in the Golland family. His dad nodded, but offered no additional comment.

“Or, three—” He hesitated, remembering their conversation during the sitting, and wondering if what he was about to say was breaking confidentiality. To be safe, he decided to err on the side of vague. “— he’s afraid Michael might find out something he shouldn’t, so he’s limiting his access to any sensitive information.”

A predatory smile appeared on his dad’s face. “I love the sound of that last one, but they’re _all_ plausible explanations. That’s a damned good analysis, son.” He chuckled. “Too bad you can’t get Baby Golland onto a therapist couch and shrink him until we get some real answers.”

He laughed, pretending to go along with the joke, but inside he was emotionally shaken. _Oh, Dad. If only you knew what I know. You’d understand Michael a lot better and not be so quick to condemn him._ But despite being a snitch for his dad, he drew the line at breaking his oath of confidentiality. Not even in the interest of justice would he betray Michael’s trust.

His dad glanced at the clock. “Almost time for dinner.”  He started to get up, but Daniel stopped him.

“Dad, wait. There’s something else we need to talk about.” He relaxed back into his cushy office chair, waiting. Daniel swallowed nervously, worried about his reaction. “First off, don’t shoot the messenger, okay? This was _not_ my idea.”

He frowned. “This sounds ominous.”

“Michael called me into his office the other day and asked a favor of me.” A total lie, but he wasn’t about to admit he’d gotten drunk with “Baby Golland” Christmas Eve, and then had spent the night at his house.

His dad suddenly sat up at attention, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. “A favor?? What kind of favor?”

“He wanted me to ask if you could recommend a good attorney for him.”

Instead of getting angry like he'd expected, his dad’s mouth dropped open for a few moments, then he laughed. “You’re pulling my leg, right?”

He shook his head. “It was a serious request, Dad.”

The humor dropped off his dad’s face in an instant; he was all business now. “First off, GEM has their own attorneys. And second, why ask me?  He’s bound to know how I feel about him.”

“He said he doesn’t trust GEM’s attorneys, and he needs someone who is immune to bribery and intimidation. Knowing him, he probably researched the shit out of you and found out you’ve got a reputation for being fair and ethical. I guess he’s hoping you can rise above the animosity and be professional about this.”

He got up and strode to the window overlooking their back yard. His dad had always thought better on his feet, also a carryover from his time spent in the courtroom. Daniel waited patiently. He was still surprised at his reaction; so far, no yelling.

Without turning around, he asked, “Did he tell you why he needs this attorney?”

“No. He just said it was very important.”

After a few more moments of thoughtful silence, he left the window and settled back down into his chair. A slow smile spread across his face. Definitely not the reaction Daniel had been expecting. “That sneaky little shit is up to something.”

Mystified, Daniel asked what that something could possibly be.

“I have no idea, but he’s definitely sending me a message.”

“A message??”  He was completely lost now.

“Of all the attorneys in Los Angeles he could have asked for advice, he chose the one who is trying to find enough evidence to put his ass in jail. That was not a coincidence, Daniel. I told you, this man is smart. There’s a reason he asked _me_. I just need to figure out what it is.”

He couldn’t offer any hypotheses. The motivation behind Michael’s request was as much as mystery to him as it was to his dad. Regardless, the tension he’d been carrying around since Christmas Eve was finally gone. This had turned out a lot better than he’d thought it would. “I gotta say, I’m surprised at your reaction. I thought you’d be mad as hell.”

“Oh no, I’m not mad.” His dad smirked, and gave him the side-eye. “I’m intrigued. So, I’m going to give him the name of the best attorney I know. Someone who has the ethics of a saint and who will fight to the metaphorical death for him, if that’s what it takes.”

He plucked a business card from off his desk, flipped it over and scribbled something on the back. He accepted the card, and took a quick glance at the name before putting it in his billfold.

 _Jesus Fucking Christ on a cross._ The tension in his gut was back in spades. He was pretty sure this was not going to work. Not at all. But he had no way of telling his dad that without giving away the depth of his friendship with Michael. As far as his father knew, they were just co-workers. So, it would be a little hard to explain how he knew beforehand that Michael was probably going to go ape-shit when he saw the name on that card.

“You’re positive about this?”

With a confident nod, his dad reassured him. “Trust me. She’s the best.”

 

**DANIEL AND HIS MOTHER, TRISHA HART (This is Channing Tatum's real mom. You can definitely see the resemblance!)**

 

**DANIEL'S FATHER, DAVID HART (This is NOT Channing Tatum's real dad! lol) **


	28. New Year's Eve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been awhile since I updated, I know. Sorry. Real life has been consuming my spare time.

Michael leaned against the kitchen counter, trying unsuccessfully to be invisible. The help continuously slid him annoyed glances as they scurried around with their drink and hors d’oeuvre trays. A man in a tux, with his hands idly in his pockets, was definitely in their way—like he gave a shit. This was _his_ home; they’d just have to walk around him. This kitchen was once his sanctuary—the one safe place his father rarely ventured into, which was why he was currently using it as a temporary hiding place. In this room, he felt closer to his mother than anywhere else in the house. If only he could lean against the counter for the rest of the night and just live inside his memories. . .

He sighed and glanced at his watch. _Only eight o’clock_. Five more hours of this useless shit, if he was lucky. He wanted to be home, stretched out on his sofa with a good book and waiting for the call from Daniel to tell him that Redemption House had a new and improved look. He was antsy; his nerves wouldn’t settle until he knew for sure they were successful _and_ home safe.

He chuckled softly, which earned him yet another annoyed look from the wait staff. They probably thought he was laughing at them, but in actuality he was amused at the idea of his being worried about Daniel’s safety tonight, when only a day before he’d wanted to wring his stupid neck, and his dad’s, too:

_“No offense, but your dad’s a prick.”_

_If Daniel was a porcupine, his quills would have been standing straight up. “You know when you start a sentence off with ‘no offense’ you’re getting ready to offend someone, right?”_

_“Yeah, so?”_

_The corner of Daniel’s mouth twitched. His signature lip-curl—a sign that he was getting his ass out of joint over something—was just moments away from appearing. “My dad is not a prick. He’s a top-notch attorney who kicks ass at what he does, and if he says she’s the best, then she’s the best.”_

_The name scribbled on the back of the business card was Alana Pareja. Michael had never heard of her. Probably because she’d just climbed over the nearest border fence a month ago. “So, you’re telling me that of all the attorneys in Los Angeles, a wetback cunt is the best he could come up with? Is she even legal??”_

_Daniel’s mouth dropped open, then slammed shut, his lips skipping the curl step and going straight to the thin-angry-slash-across–his–face. “So, you’re a misogynist **and** a racist now?? God, you’re a piece of work. If you weren’t going to take his advice, then why did you even ask for it??  You know what? Fuck you! You can find your own damned lawyer!” _

_He stuffed his leftover lunch into his superhero bag and stood, ready to storm out of the office. Daniel’s sporadic theatrics were irritating, but also entertaining. Michael executed a gargantuan eye roll and sighed. “Sit down.” He hesitated and then added, “Please?”_

_Daniel narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but dropped back down into his chair and glared._

_“Okay, your dad’s not a prick, but you can’t blame me for being skeptical. For all I know, he could be setting me up with the worst attorney in LA, while he sits back and laughs when I crash and burn. The man hates me.”_

_Surprisingly, Daniel’s glare abruptly vanished. “He doesn’t hate you. He respects your intelligence and attention to detail, and he actually said that with a little mentoring—“ Daniel pointed a finger at the ceiling, looked up, then dropped his gaze again, smiling. “—you could be up there, in the big chair.”_

_It was his turn to mouth-drop. Him the CEO of GEM? The juvenile delinquent fuck-up son who could draw the floor plan of the county jail from memory?? Michael almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of it. His father would commit infanticide before he’d allow that to happen._

_“I stand corrected.” He snorted softly. “Your father isn’t a prick; he’s a top-notch fool. I’ll never sit in that CEO chair.”_

_Their conversation went downhill from there. He was forced to sit through a Daniel-lecture that would have made a Catholic nun proud. First it was a Don’t-Talk-Shit-About-My-Family tirade that quickly moved on to address his misogyny. He needed to understand there were smart women out there who knew their shit and behaved professionally and who weren’t after his money, his status, or his dick. Yeah. Uh-huh. Right. Then Daniel expounded, once again, on the inappropriateness of the word ‘cunt’ in civil, adult conversation, promising to walk out of the room the very next time he heard it. Yawn. Then he effortlessly inserted some nonsensical bullshit from his psychology book into it, something about classical conditioning and its debilitating impact on the freedom of the human spirit. He tuned out after the first couple of sentences. When the phrase ‘judgmental, racist, sexist, xenophobic, arrogant bastard’ made an appearance, he’d finally heard enough. Daniel was either going to shut up or he was going to choke him until his face matched his tacky purple Converse._

_“I don’t need a fucking mother,” he snarled, interrupting Daniel’s tirade. He was surprised at the anger simmering in his gut. Who the fuck did he think he was, lecturing him, ordering him around like he was a child?? “I already had one of those—an excellent one, in fact. So, if you’re trying to take her place, just fucking stop, because you’re a piss-poor substitute, Daniel!”_

_In the stunned silence that followed his outburst, his pounding heart felt like the loudest sound in the room. He was furious that he’d lost his temper, allowing Daniel to get underneath his skin and poke a well-placed needle into his emotional wounds. It seemed that wall he’d spent years building around himself was as useless as the energy he’d expended guarding it._

_Daniel slowly sat back in his chair, raking a hand through his hair and dropping his gaze to the floor. When he finally looked up, his eyes were full of sincere remorse._ _“Jesus Fucking Christ,” he cursed softly. “I’m sorry. It’s just that, when I care deeply about someone my first instinct is to help them. I can’t stop it, and I get a little intense, especially when I’m trying to help, but instead I end up making things worse, and then I get frustrated with myself for being such an incompetent ass— **and** frustrated with the person I’m trying to help because they refuse to listen—and it all just goes to shit, which pisses me off, so then I end up saying stupid, hurtful shit instead of just keeping my mouth shut like any normal person would do.” He stopped, sighed, and shook his head. “That didn’t make any sense.” _

_He smiled, his anger suddenly gone. It made perfect sense to him. “You just summed up your entire personality in one huge run-on sentence.”_

_Daniel laughed. “Damn. You’re right.”_

_They exchanged apologies: Daniel promising to tone down the know-it-all side of his personality, while he promised never again to insult Daniel’s family. Daniel nodded, accepting his apology, but saying nothing. There was a strange look in his eyes that Michael couldn’t interpret._

_“You have to trust me,” Daniel said softly. “You do trust me, right?”_

_He nodded. “I trust you. And I’ll call Ms. Pareja after the holidays and set up an appointment. Thank you for being the messenger. I know that couldn’t have been easy. And thank your dad for helping me. He made a wise decision that I guarantee you he won’t regret.”_

_A tiny frown creased Daniel’s forehead, but he said nothing. As for him, he suddenly felt uplifted, as if the dark storm cloud that was his life had suddenly parted, allowing the sun to burst through. Someone ‘cared deeply’ about him. He didn’t really know what to do with that, but he liked how it felt._

“Hiding in the kitchen? I should have known.” His father’s words were coated with the oily film of disgust. “We have guests, unless you’ve forgotten. _Important_ guests. Your presence is expected.” He snatched a glass of champagne from a passing tray and smiled. “Oh, and I have some people I’d like you to meet. _Important_ people. So, I expect your best behavior. Clear?”

 _Fuck this party_. But Michael nodded, plastering on a fake smile and following his father out of the kitchen and into holiday hell.

********************

The important people he was supposed to meet turned out to be an older man—about his father’s age—in a business suit instead of a tux, and a young woman with long hair so bright red it almost looked orange. A quote from one of his favorite BDSM books popped into his head: _“I love redheads. It’s not the hair color, it’s the crazy.”_  He wondered if she practiced the lifestyle, because he had a sudden urge to wipe that arrogant smirk off her face. The welts he’d leave on her ass afterwards would just be icing on the cake.

His father made the introductions. “Michael, this is Martin Pierce, a business associate from Boston. Martin, this is my son. Michael.”

He reluctantly shook the man’s hand, noting that his palms were dry, his clasp strong and confident _._ As the man murmured a polite greeting, Michael wondered what business he was in, but his father’s introduction conveniently left out those details.

“And this is Martin’s daughter, Miranda.”

He wasn’t about to shake _her_ hand, so he gave her a rude up-nod which was sure to piss off his father. Her glittering green gaze quickly swept over him, a head-to-toe appraisal that left him feeling like he’d failed to measure up to some invisible standard. _Cunt_.

His father dusted off his rarely used I’m-So-Proud-of-My-Son smile. “Michael is head of personnel at GEM. He has a very bright future ahead of him with the company.”

He fought the urge to laugh. He didn’t have a “very bright future ahead of him” in _anything,_ let alone GEM _._ While he was recovering from his father’s fake show of paternal pride, Mr. Pierce picked up the bragging ball and ran down the field with it. Apparently, Miss Orange Hair held a Bachelor’s Degree from Parsons (wherever the hell _that_ was) in Fashion Design, and was currently finishing up her second degree in London. Graduating in June.  _As if I care._ He was so proud of her accomplishments at such a young age, blah, blah, blah.

He was searching for a fuck to give when the cunt finally opened her mouth and spoke. “I have a wide pelvis, too. My gyno says I would have made an amazing pioneer woman. I could drop a baby in the field and get up ten minutes later and start plowing again.”

She gave him a mischievous wink. Maybe he’d been a little harsh in his initial assessment. It was obvious their respective parents were trying to hook them up. She wasn’t having any of it, and neither was he.

“Well that’ll certainly come in handy on my 500-acre farm,” he quipped sarcastically, smiling when he saw his father’s silent glare in his peripheral vision.

“And I can embroider the _shit_ out of pillowcases, too,” she added, nodding and grinning.

Michael’s eyes widened, as if he were hugely impressed. His father’s frown deepened. “Even better, because I have a huge farmhouse full of pillows. It’s almost like we were meant to be together.”

She laughed, his father scowled, and Martin Pierce chuckled. “I have to say, Paul, I really like your son. Perhaps you could keep Miranda company, Michael, while your father and I talk some business?”

Before he could open his mouth to refuse, they were gone, heads together, probably plotting to take over the world. He looked down at Miranda. The top of her orange head was almost level with his chest. She looked up at him with those appraising, judgmental eyes of hers. What the hell was he supposed to say now?? Polite small talk was not in his skill set, not unless it included insults, which he could whip off the tongue at supersonic speed.

It was her who broke the awkward silence. She folded her arms over her chest and made a grand pronouncement. “Let’s get some things straight from the get-go. Number one: call me Randee. Number two: I’m not a vapid fashion designer; I’m a highly trained fashion _consultant._  And number three: I am NOT going to marry you.”

He smiled. Two could play that game. “Number one, that’s a stupid dyke name. Number two, I don’t care. And number three, I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last whore on earth.”

She dropped her arms; her gaze hardened into shards of green ice. “Well, aren’t you just the little cunt-muffin. And a poorly dressed one at that.”

To his surprise, he laughed. She was an arrogant bitch in need of a serious ego-trim but, on second thought, trading insults with Miss Orange Hair might just be what he needed to get him through this hellish New Year’s Eve party.  “So, how about I show you around this dump while our fathers discuss whether to buy Boardwalk or Park Place.”

He knew she probably wanted to kick him in the nuts right then, but she settled for another icy glare. Then she followed him. _Women are so fucking predictable._

\----------------------  
  
  
After a cursory tour of the pretentious mansion he’d been forced to call home for seventeen years, they ended up in the sunroom, surrounded by flowers, and sitting as far apart from each other as they could get. Conversation had once again thudded to stop. _Awkward._ At that moment, he loathed Martin Pierce for dumping his annoying daughter into his lap for the evening to babysit. _Might as well entertain myself while I lose brain cells._

“So, what exactly is a cunt-muffin?”

Without looking at him, she answered, “A man who has the potential to be incredibly sexy, but he’s too much of a fucking cunt to actually pull it off.”

That shoe fit, so he was going to wear it with pride. “Okay, I’ll concede that, but poorly dressed?” He chuckled arrogantly. “If I had to guess, my tux cost ten times more than that I-Want-to-Slash-My-Wrists dress _you’re_ wearing. Plus, _my_ clothes are tailor made to fit the contours of my body. I don’t buy off-the-rack.”

She snorted a laugh, then finally looked at him. “Well, good for you, Mr. La Dee Da. But the difference between you and me is that _my_ clothing is a truthful presentation of who I am, while yours is just a façade. You’re hiding behind expensive tailored fabrics, which is pretty cowardly, if you ask me. What are you afraid of, Michael?”

Her criticism hit him like an unexpected punch to the gut, leaving him breathless and floundering. Because she was right, which pissed him the hell off. But he was damned if he’d let her see it. He kept his face carefully blank and asked, “What makes you think I’m afraid of anything?”

She turned her entire body to face him, kicking her heels off, tucking her legs up underneath her and pushing her mane of wavy hair over her shoulder. At that moment, she reminded him of Anne just before they’d negotiated their contract: completely at ease, confident, and way too ballsy to suit him.

“Think of it like advertising. Your clothing is your personal billboard—your first impression with everyone you meet. A man like you—tall, slim, attractive—should _turn_ heads when he walks into a room, not look like everyone else. You’re _blending,_ Michael, and a man with a ‘very bright future ahead of him’ should _not_ be blending.”

He wasn’t going to debate his nonexistent ‘very bright future’ _or_ his wardrobe choices with her. Even though he abhorred banal small talk, it was definitely time for a change of subject.

“What are you studying in London?”  He couldn’t care less, of course, but people seemed to love to talk about themselves. She immediately brightened. _So predictable._

“I started out in New York in a fashion design program. Everyone in the fashion industry has to learn the basics. I breezed through that program with no problem, and graduated early. Now I’m working on my Master’s Degree in London. Applied Psychology in Fashion. It’s the study of how human behavior relates to fashion and business. It’s my passion, actually.”

 _Applied Psychology?? Good god._ _Another Daniel, but with tits._ The last thing he needed in his life was yet another head-shrinker who analyzed every single word he uttered. “That sounds interesting.”  _Not even remotely_. “What business is your father in? I wasn’t clear on that during our introductions.”

She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Ugh. Do we have to talk about that?”

“I’m curious. Our fathers seem to be rather… _close_.” One perfectly plucked eyebrow rose suggestively. “I meant close, as in _business associates_ close, of course.”

“Of course that’s what you meant.” She snickered. “Daddy fancies himself a business magnate, an investor, a philanthropist. He worships Warren Buffett and wants to be just like him when he grows up.”

 _Interesting._ Why was his father courting an investor? There were no acquisitions in the works at GEM, not that he knew of anyway. Perhaps it was time to drop the attitude and massage some information out of little Randee. “Do you know anything about what kind of business they’re discussing right now?”

She groaned. “Oh god, I try very hard _not_ to know. Daddy’s business is so very boring. He’s gone all the time.” An annoyed furrow suddenly appeared across her forehead. “In fact, he went to the Dominican Republic for _seven days_ during Christmas. Who in their right mind wants to spend Christmas in a third world country?? He abandoned me to celebrate all alone. That’s just so—”

She rattled off a Woe-Is-Me monologue about her horrible holiday, but he wasn’t listening. Martin Pierce had been in the Dominican Republic at the same time as _his_ father. It was highly unlikely that was an innocent coincidence. His father was up to something—if his secrecy was any indication—and he wanted to find out exactly what that something was.

“Randee,” he snapped, a little more rudely than he’d intended. She stopped her whine-fest and glared at him. “My father was in the Dominican Republic during Christmas, too.”

Her green eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Really?” Then she giggled. “Maybe they were hooking up. Stranger things have happened.”

He didn’t know Martin Pierce’s sexual preferences, but pigs would fly before his Bible-thumping father would suck a dick. “I seriously doubt that. It sounds to me like they’re exploring some kind of business deal. Maybe you could keep your eyes and ears open and try to find out what they’re up to?”

She silently considered him; he refused to squirm under the scrutiny of her gaze. “Maybe I could, but then again—“ She smiled slyly. “—I’m not motivated enough to care.”

Unbeknownst to her, she’d just waltzed right into his comfort zone; he was an expert at negotiating with gold-digging cunts. “I could make it worth your while. Enough… _motivation…_ to fill your closet with a small fortune in Versace products.”

She twirled a strand of orange between her fingers and chuckled. “Well, the thing is, Michael, I have this itty-bitty little trust fund thingie, so I don’t need your money.”

Miss Miranda Pierce was playing hard to get. Well, no matter; he wasn’t deterred. There was always something women like her wanted. It was just a matter of discovering what it was. Stock shares, maybe? He quickly ran some figures in his head. How many shares could he sell off without taking too large of a hit?

“But, there is _one_ thing that might motivate me,” she said softly, innocently batting her eyelashes at him like some B-rate Hollywood starlet. “You could help me with my Master’s Project this semester and, in return, I could open up my cute little ears and even snoop around in Daddy’s home office when he’s out of town.”

 _Master’s Project??_  Helping others was not in his social skill set either but, despite that, he was infinitesimally intrigued. “What does helping you with this project entail exactly?”

After listening to her explanation, he wasn’t sure it was worth it. He would have to submit to three interviews with her, discussing his self-perceptions, wardrobe choices, and what criteria he used when choosing his clothing. They sounded like Daniel’s impromptu therapy sessions with a heavy dose of stupid thrown in. How could anyone build an entire profession around someone’s “feelings” about their clothes?? If he could find anything out on his own, he would tell her what to do with her fashion psychobabble, but his father wasn’t sharing, and he’d been unable to surreptitiously find anything useful laying around in his study.

 _Jesus Fucking Christ_ , as Daniel would say. He resisted the urge to sigh deeply and roll his eyes. “Okay, I’ll help you out, but information exchange is going to be on a one-to-one ratio: you’ll get an interview when _I_ get something useful about what they’re up to. Deal?”

She smiled and stuck out her hand. “Deal.”

They shook on it and exchanged contact information. Like with his deal with Anne, he wondered what madness he’d just gotten himself involved in. Thankfully, a vibration from her phone saved him from having to continue awkward small talk with her. Mr. Pierce was ready to leave and wanted her to meet him in the foyer. Apparently he wasn’t interested in staying for the midnight fuck-fest, or perhaps it was because his daughter was with him that he was leaving early. Regardless of the reason, his respect for the man rose several notches. After Randee left, he slipped out the sunroom doors and headed home. His father was going to be pissed—and he’d have to suffer through a lecture tomorrow about it—but he had more important things on his mind tonight than strippers and whores.

\----------------------------------------------------

He was in bed reading by lamplight when, at the stroke of midnight, Daniel finally called. His first words were, _“Happy New Year, Michael!”,_ followed by a squawk from one of those cheap noisemakers that almost blew out his eardrum.

“Yeah, whatever,” he said. He hated most holidays just because. “So, did everything go okay?”

_“Yep. We finished the project with no problems, and got home in time to knock back a few in celebration. I think the client is going to be really happy with the results.”_

He smiled. Redemption House had a new paint job, and Daniel and Cam were home safe. Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough. His father’s meltdown was going to be epic—the perfect beginning to what might end up being a pretty decent year.

\----------------------------------------------

 **KATHERINE MCNAMARA AS "MIRANDA PIERCE"** (wearing her I-Want-To-Slash-My-Wrists dress, as Michael called it. lol) 

 

**ELIA COMETTI (AKA "MICHAEL GOLLAND") IN A TUX. UGH. THE MAN IS BEAUTIFUL!!**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some readers have the opinion that adding pictures with a story is lazy writing, that readers are supposed to form an image of the characters solely by the author's descriptions. I totally agree with that statement 100%, but I still like including pictures of the people who INSPIRE me to create particular characters.


	29. If You Fail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay. Real life and all that. I would love it if you commented and let me know you're reading. Reviews help me stay motivated to write. Love to you all for supporting original works. It's an uphill struggle to be an original story swimming in a sea of fanfiction, so each and every one of my subscribers, bookmarkers, and commenters are so appreciated!

Daniel opened his eyes, groaned, then immediately closed them again. This New Year’s Eve hangover was mild compared to the monster ones from his college days, but he was still annoyed with himself. He’d planned on peacefully painting away the entire day, but a stupid game of Battle Shots with Cam had put a damper on that idea. At least there’d been no nightmares; that was always a plus. And speaking of Cam…

He carefully turned his head. Cam was dead asleep beside him and softly snoring. A glance at the clock told him it was almost ten a.m.—way too early to be awake after a night of breaking the law _and_ losing the cheap wine version of Battleship. He stifled a sigh and eased out of bed. Cam’s peaceful snoring continued unabated.

After a hot shower to wake him up, two Ibuprofen for his headache, and a cup of coffee just because, he was halfway dressed and finally lucid enough to start planning his day. A commissioned portrait was three quarters of the way finished. He could knock that out in a couple of focused hours and still have time left over to indulge himself in a few risqué sketches of his favorite millionaire.

As he shoveled some cold cereal into his hollow stomach, he revisited the stimulating memory of Michael in a tux at the Christmas party. Imagining the treasures that lay beneath those expensive clothes could keep him occupied for an embarrassingly long time but, unfortunately, sexual fantasies wouldn’t get that portrait finished any faster, nor that much-needed check in the mail. He needed to get it in gear.

The doorbell interrupted his internal debate on whether to get his lazy ass up and start painting or just sit at the table and fantasize the hours away. “Somebody doesn’t know what day it is,” he muttered, reluctantly shuffling to the door after the second chime of the bell. Annoyed, he swung it open without even bothering to check the peep hole. It could have been an axe murderer going door-to-door to fill his quota. Instead, he fought to keep his jaw off the floor—and the drool in his mouth—when he laid eyes on his unexpected visitor.

“What are you doing here? It’s New Year’s Day.”

Michael shrugged. “Bored.”  He held up a large brown bag. “I brought New York bagels.”

Too late, he realized he should have chosen his Lounging-Around-The-House-On-His-Day-Off outfit a little more carefully. The sweatpants were a week dirty and hung way too low on his hips—not his fault the dryer had eaten the drawstring—and his t-shirt was still lying on the bedroom floor because he’d needed to cool off after the hot shower. To top it all off, he’d foregone shaving this morning; he was even more stubbly than usual. Michael’s gaze traveled slowly over his half-naked body, causing a pleasant tingle in one particular attention-starved extremity. 

Michael looked up and smirked. “Is this a bad time?"

He pulled himself together, secretly pleased to see Michael despite his own state of slobby dishevelment. “Nope. Come on in.”

He stepped aside, allowing Michael to brush past him into the foyer, his distinctive cologne trailing after him and making wild, passionate love to Daniel’s olfactory nerve. Today, Michael was a walking denim advertisement, but he was rocking it: distressed jeans, denim button-up shirt with a dark blue wife-beater peeking out from underneath, and a black leather jacket, which gave him an attractive bad boy vibe. His hair was a mess of every-which-way gelled spikes, so different from the smooth style he usually wore during work hours.

Pointing Michael toward the kitchen, he beat a hasty retreat down the hall. “I’m going to put on a shirt. It’s gotten a little chilly in here.”

Cam’s side of the bed was empty and the shower was going again. He snatched his t-shirt off the floor and pulled it over his head as he hurried back to the kitchen. The bagels were set out on the table and Michael was draped over the chair like a luscious piece of blue silk. He slid into the chair opposite him, thanked him for the food, then pounced on those bagels like a starving street urchin.

“New hairdo?” he asked in between mouthfuls of warm, chewy dough.

Michael rolled his eyes and bemoaned the unfairness of being born with an out-of-control cowlick. Apparently he’d had an I-Don’t-Give-a-Fuck moment and had just stuck half a can of hair gel in it in an act of petty revenge.

Daniel liked his new messy locks. A _lot._ “It suits you. You should wear it that way more often.”

He was surprised to see Michael blush. Inwardly amused, he scarfed down another bagel while Michael watched. Instead of being awkward, the silence between them felt comfortable, like they were just a couple of old friends who had long since moved past the need for meaningless chatter.

“I’m assuming you survived your father’s fury, since you’re sitting across from me and breathing.”

Michael chuckled. “Oh, he was seriously pissed. Cursing, pacing back and forth with his teeth clenched. Fists balled up and dying to hit something. But he didn’t have a target. I professed complete ignorance when he tried to connect GEM’s vandalism with Redemption House. I told him you spray painting people protect each other and it was a dead end. He didn’t take it well.” Michael’s brilliant white smile lit up the room. “Watching him get his Frigos in a wad totally made my year.”

He stopped chewing. “Frigos?”

Michael’s eyebrow rose a snobby fraction, his voice taking on the seductive tone often heard in sultry commercials. “Underwear for the sophisticated, athletic male.” Then he snickered sarcastically. “If you count fucking whores as athletic or sophisticated. One hundred dollars a pair. He has several drawers full of them in a wide variety of colors.”

He grimaced. “TMI, dude.”

Imagining Old Man Golland in sexy undies was one thing, but imagining them on Michael’s sleek, tight ass was a whole other horny ball game. He needed to see what these hundred dollar Frigos actually looked like. And while he was at it, he needed to get laid before he started humping some random dude’s leg.

“That’s why I’m here, actually,” Michael started, but before he could finish his thought, Cam burst into the kitchen in all his towel-around-the-waist, post-shower glory.

“Your mattress is a piece of shit, Danny Boy. My back is killing me.”

Michael’s eyes widened slightly, his gaze sweeping over Cam’s half-naked body, then settling on his elaborate chest piece. A tiny frown suddenly rippled across his brow.

Cam tried to look chagrined at his dishabille, but failed miserably. “Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt. Hey Michael.”

Pleasantries were exchanged, more bagels were eaten, and all the while Michael cast surreptitious glances at Cam’s chest whenever he could. Michael was a detail man, which made him wonder what it was about Cam’s body art that had caught his eye.

Cam finally got up to get dressed and leave but Michael stopped him. “Before you go, I wanted to thank you both for what you did for me last night. It was worth every penny I paid you, but that was just for goods and services. I’d like to give you both something extra for customer satisfaction.” He pulled out his wallet and dug out a folded envelope. “The Lakers are playing at the Staples Center this weekend. This will get you, and a bunch of your friends, free entrance into GEM’s private suite. Food and drink included.”

Cam’s mouth dropped open, but Daniel was grinning from ear-to-ear. He plucked that envelope out of Michael’s hand and kissed it. “Thank you!! Are you coming with us?”

Michael’s pleasant expression fizzled. “I’m sorry, no. I already have plans for this weekend.”

Gauging Michael’s body language and the look on his face, he imagined his plans to be the slow killing and dismemberment of newborn ponies. Maybe he could get the details out of him after Cam left.

After another round of gushing gratitude over Michael’s gift, Cam retreated down the hall to get dressed, but not before sending him a wink, along with a suggestive glance Michael’s way. Daniel glared at him. Luckily Michael missed the entire exchange; he was staring down at the leftover bagels like the truths of the universe were written on their crusts, an infinitesimal frown still lingering on his brow.

After Cam left, an uncomfortable silence suddenly descended upon his less than tidy kitchen. He focused on finishing up his coffee while Michael occupied himself with being preoccupied. Finally, he couldn’t stand it any longer; he broke the awkward silence.

“I saw you staring at Cam’s chest piece…”

Michael looked up, a strange expression on his face. “It’s very… _busy_ …wouldn’t you say?”

Busy was an understatement. Cam’s chest piece was the body art version of _Where’s Waldo_. A person could lose themselves for hours trying to follow—and make sense out of—all the swirling lines, dots, and merging colors.

“I told you, Cam’s a fauvist. He loves experimenting with color and shapes. It took him several months to design it and, I agree, it _is_ pretty overwhelming the first time you see it.”

Michael’s blue gaze had deepened, honing in on his face like a bird of prey on a rabbit. “What does it mean?”

“Sometimes these marks on people’s skin are intensely personal, and they have meaning only to them.”

Michael arched an eyebrow. “You don’t know what his means?”

“If I _did_ know, I wouldn’t tell you, because sharing the meaning of the art on our bodies is a personal choice, based on trust.”

“So, is that a yes or a no?”

His therapist radar switched on. Why was Michael being so persistent about this? It was just a tattoo. An elaborate one, yes, but still…

“Why are you so interested?”

Michael shrugged. “Just curious.”

 _Just curious, my ass._ If there was one thing he'd learned about Michael in the short time he’d known him, it was that he rarely, if _ever_ , engaged in meaningless small talk. There was an underlying motive for his curiosity, he was sure of it.  He told Michael if he wanted to know, he should just ask Cam himself, but he could tell by Michael’s noncommittal grunt that he probably wouldn’t. Maybe it _was_ just a passing curiosity after all.

Daniel cleared away the remnants of their brunch and did a pretty good impression of tidying up the kitchen. What he _actually_ did was just move the clutter from one place to another. Michael was still preoccupied and absent-mindedly tapping his finger on the table, which meant he was either angry about something or feeling a little off-balance. Since his cheekbones weren’t currently sharp enough to etch glass, he ruled out anger. He was just about to ask when Michael finally spoke.

“So, Cam slept in your bed last night?”

He made his way back to the table and plopped down in the chair. “Yeah. He kicked my ass at Battle Shots, so he was too trashed to drive.”

Michael’s finger went still, his face a blank slate. Daniel couldn’t figure out what the man was thinking, which frustrated him. 

“Battle shots?”

“It’s a drinking game. Battleship with beer, wine, or liquor. Something idiots like to do when they’re massively bored.” Daniel chuckled. Michael gave him a long, blank look in return. “You know, Battleship. The board game? You’ve played that before, right?”

Michael shook his head, and from the look on his face, he wasn’t interested in learning to play it in the future, either.

“Does Cam kick your ass at Battle Shots often?”

“Every. Single. Time. Let me tell you, that queen can drink an elephant under the table.” He snorted a laugh, then realized Michael wasn’t laughing with him. It took a few moments for his grey matter to kick in, and when it did he was stunned.

“Wait, are you—?” he hesitated, unsure if he was reading Michael’s signals correctly. “—are you thinking that Cam and I are. . . _hooking up_???”

Another blank, blue stare.

“Because we’re not. We’re just friends. I don’t have a spare bedroom, remember? And you know first-hand how uncomfortable my couch is. I mean, Cam’s right, my mattress is not much better, but. . .” _Shut up, Daniel. You’re babbling like you’re guilty of something, which you aren’t. And by the way, is he jealous? Is that what this is about??_

He was suddenly conflicted. Obviously, the thought of him in bed with someone else had turned Michael a bit green around the gonads. And as a therapist, he would be the first to point out that jealousy was a very unattractive trait, and a destructive force in any relationship. But, on the other hand, the horn-dog side of him was jumping up and down with joy. Green was not Michael’s best color but, shit, at this point he would take what he could get.

Just the tiniest hint of a noncommittal smile clung to the edges of Michael’s luscious mouth. He couldn’t figure out the emotion behind it, which frustrated him yet again. Was Michael just being his normal dick self or what?? Then, Michael's smile morphed into the smug, arrogant grin he knew so well.

“I wasn’t implying anything. I was just asking how often he beat you.”

_Uh huh. Sure you were._

As much as he wanted to explore Michael’s newfound feelings of jealousy, he decided it was probably best to change the subject.  When asked if he’d made any New Year’s resolutions, Michael derisively rolled his eyes. He then went on to arrogantly proclaim that resolutions were massively stupid because no one ever followed through with them.

“I do,” Daniel said defensively. “I’ve followed through with every single one I’ve made through the years. The secret is to set an _attainable_ goal with detailed steps on how to reach it.”

Michael sat back and crossed his arms across his chest. “Okay. What’s _your_ New Year’s resolution, then?”

 _To slowly peel those designer clothes off you and explore that gorgeous body. To wake up next to you every morning and watch you fall asleep every night. To paint you nude. To tell you I love you, and hear you say it back._ But he said none of that, of course, because Satan would be shitting snow cones before any of those wishes would come true.

Instead he said, “I’m going to focus on my art this year. I want a gallery opening. I’ve never had one and I think it’s time. So, to get there I first have to build a substantial body of work—new stuff that’s never been shown anywhere before. I’ll need to complete at least two pieces of art a month for about a year before any gallery worth anything will even _talk_ to me. But I can do it if I stay focused and draw up a detailed plan, which I’m going to do this weekend.”

And part of that detailed plan included a sharp decrease in the amount of time he spent drawing Michael in various deliciously erotic poses. He stifled a sigh. This goal was going to take way more self-discipline than all his others combined.

Michael nodded, eyebrows raised. “That’s impressive.”

“Thanks. And I think _you_ should make a resolution, too.”

Michael fell silent a few moments, thinking. “Okay. How about I stop using the word ‘cunt’ in conversation? I figure I can start out by cutting back to three cunts a week for a month, then each successive month cut back a little more until I’m totally cunt-free. I think I could do it by June. . . if I stay focused.”

Michael grinned and waited for his response. _You are so full of yourself, Michael Golland, but you’re completely adorable_. He snickered, which widened Michael’s grin even more. “That’s actually a pretty good one, but I was thinking more along the lines of planning what you need to do to get that CEO chair.”

Michael’s grin instantly faded; his blue gaze hardened. “You said the goal needed to be attainable. My father will never allow me to become CEO of GEM.”

He leaned forward and forced himself to meet Michael’s stubborn gaze. “Who cares whether he would allow it or not. I’m not an expert on corporate stuff by any means, but even _I_ know that CEOs are forcibly removed from their positions all the time. . . for various reasons.”

In the tense silence that fell between them, he wondered if Michael was remembering their conversation during his first sitting. After working in GEM’s accounting department for a year, he’d said that numbers were ‘slippery’. To him, slippery numbers could only mean one thing: some funny-money shit was going on in that company. That wasn’t even counting his father forcing him to be complicit in the discriminatory firings. As Michael stared down at the table deep in thought, he wondered just how much shadiness those compelling blue eyes had seen at GEM throughout the years, and also what it would take for Michael to act on that information. His dad was right: Michael was _smart_ enough to run GEM, but was he brave enough to _try?_ Daniel thought maybe he could help him with that.

“All I’m asking is for you to just think about it.”

Michael looked up and Daniel was surprised to see a glimmer of fear in his eyes. “Believe it or not, I _have_ thought about it. But the truth is, if I try and I fail, I lose everything: my job, my inheritance, my business contacts and reputation. _Everything._ ”

He shook his head. “Not everything. If you fail, _I’ll_ still be here.”

Michael seemed momentarily stunned at his words, but he pressed on. “Back when I was doing counseling—before I came to GEM—a lot of unhappy people came through my door. And they all had one thing in common: fear. All of us fear something—failure, rejection, judgment, vulnerability, loneliness, death—and those fears prevent us from realizing our full potential. They stop us from being truly happy.”

He'd never revealed to anyone what he was about to tell Michael. That inner voice was screaming at him to keep his mouth shut because, like his dad had said, maybe he couldn’t trust the man sitting across from him. But he also knew that that inner voice was just his fear talking. And his fear was one extremely strong son of a bitch. But, sharing his own insecurities might help Michael silence that voice in _his_ head that fed _his_ fears.

“That’s why I made this resolution, you know. Because deep down inside I have this fear that I suck, that I have no appreciable talent.” Michael started to protest, but he stopped him. “It doesn’t matter if you say I’m the most talented person you’ve ever known. It doesn’t matter what _anyone_ says, because that fear comes from in _here_.” He touched his chest, just over his heart. “I’m the one who has to face it and overcome it. So, I’m forcing the issue this year. If I can get a showing at a gallery, then I’ll know that my art is not just some weekend hobby. This is just something I have to prove to myself.”

Michael nodded, and by his expression Daniel could tell he understood. He imagined that Michael had a shit ton of internalized fears that were holding him back from becoming the beautiful human being Daniel knew he could be. He just needed encouragement and a good example to follow. He was determined to be that example, for himself _and_ for Michael. 

“If you fail, I’ll still be here, too,” Michael said quietly.

Their eyes met across the table and it took every ounce of self-control he had not to blurt out his feelings for him: _I love you, Michael Golland. You’re broken, but I don’t care, because I’m broken, too._ They could help each other glue the pieces back together, if only he could bring himself to trust another person enough to confess his messed up past.  

Daniel extended his hand across the table. “Thank you for the support. It means a lot.”

Michael’s genuine smile as they shook hands gave him hope. The man was fucked up emotionally, but he definitely had potential.

Michael stood. “Well, I guess I should head out. I know I said was bored, but actually I have a ton of stuff to do. I just don’t want to do it.”

They headed out of the kitchen, Daniel following him to the front door. With his back to him, Daniel had the rare luxury of being able to stare directly at that exquisite ass without the fear of getting caught. _Yum._   

“What kind of stuff?”

Michael turned, tucked both hands into his pockets, looked down at the floor, and suddenly transformed into an awkward teenager who wasn’t quite sure how to go about asking his crush to the prom. That level of vulnerability, especially coming from Michael, was like a fucking siren song to Daniel. He wanted to pull Michael into his arms and hold him, tell him everything was going to be all right, or he’d die trying to make it so. He looked up, and Daniel saw a flash of that vulnerability in the blue depths of his eyes before it abruptly vanished. Michael’s emotional armor snapped back into place.

“I have to spend all day Saturday with Anne, my fake girlfriend. I’m already starting to regret this.” His gaze hardened; his cheekbones grew more pronounced with his barely controlled anger. “I don’t want her in my house, touching my things, making judgments about me and the way I live. Small talk is not one of my skills.” He chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “What the fuck am I saying? I don’t even _have_ any social skills. And I fucking hate the idea of a woman invading my personal space.”

He hurriedly searched through his mental file cabinet for a quick therapeutic method of helping Michael navigate through the murky depths of his completely understandable, but still utterly repellent, misogyny. But there was no easy fix for this. Michael desperately needed several years on a skilled therapist’s couch to even make a dent. But there was one thing that _might_ get him through one Saturday. . .

“She’s basically applying for a job, so just treat Saturday like an interview. You’ve done a ton of those in seven years, and you’re very good at them.” He shrugged. “Ask her pertinent questions, listen to her answers, seek clarification if you don’t understand something. Cook her one of those kick-ass gourmet meals you’re so good at. Take her out to meet Claire and Jamie. Show her your library, your pool, your art. Hell, take her over to the S.C. and give her the grand tour. That’ll eat up a ton of time.”

An adorable frown wrinkled its way across Michael’s brow. “The S.C.? What’s that?”

“The Starter Castle.”

Michael laughed out loud, his teeth flashing brilliant white, his eyes sparkling, vividly blue. Daniel went along for the ride, laughing with him, and reveling in the deep sense of satisfaction that Michael’s joy gave him. Making him smile was wonderful, but he lived for that moment when something he’d said or done brought out Michael’s delightful, full-throated laugh.

“I can’t wait to use that in conversation, and my father is going to totally hate it.” A lingering smile still tugged at the corners of his mouth. “That’s one of the things I really like about you, Daniel. You have a very unique view of the world. It’s so different from mine, and so refreshing. I never even thought of the interview thing. It’s perfect. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, and good luck.”

Michael’s hand was on the door knob, but he’d yet to turn it. Probably, like him, he didn’t want to return to stupid real life stuff when they could just hang out together all day and work on strengthening the connection that was slowly blossoming between them.

“It’s your turn for lunch tomorrow.”

 _Fuck._ Suddenly, he wanted to forget all about his New Year’s resolution.  “I’m not going to be at work tomorrow. Sorry. I took a personal day. This fabulous artist in Atlanta is hosting an online painting seminar. It costs an ass load of money, but it’ll help me brush up on my skills. You know, the whole New Year’s resolution thing.”

Michael smiled and nodded. There wasn’t even a glimmer of a sign that the control freak in him was annoyed at their routine being interrupted. Not even a frown. Michael was evolving—slowly—and it was a fascinating thing to watch unfold.

“I’ll see you Monday, then.”

Michael finally turned the knob and the damp, cold air from outside rushed in and effectively burst the warm bubble of contentment in his heart.

“If you want to, you can call me this weekend and let me know how things went with the F.G.”

Michael hesitated on the threshold, smirked, then snickered. “The Fake Girlfriend?”

He nodded. They both laughed. Then Michael was gone.

He leaned his back against the door, closed his eyes and thought about heading to his studio and knocking out a quick watercolor of what he imagined Michael looked like in the shower. Then he remembered the unfinished portrait, along with his quickly dwindling bank account, and sighed.

_Fuck that bitch named Real Life. . ._

 

**MICHAEL ROCKING DENIM, BLACK LEATHER & MESSY HAIR**

** **

 


	30. Saturday With Anne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long one, almost 6,000 words, but it would have broken the flow to divide it into two parts. (Of course, I could always try not being such a word whore, but that ship has already sailed long ago. lol) Hope you enjoy! I'd love to hear your thoughts!

“In a large enameled cast-iron casserole, heat the oil. Add half of the ground beef and brown over moderately high heat, about 2 minutes. Transfer the meat to a plate. Repeat with the remaining ground beef.” 

If his mother was watching right now, Michael was sure her delicate brow would be furrowed in deep disapproval. _Recipes are for amateurs, Michael. Of course, they have their uses—to learn the basic techniques of food preparation is the main one—but a skilled chef, like a skilled pianist, doesn’t need written instructions to create a masterpiece._

“Sorry Mother,” he murmured, hoping she was able to hear his apology, but knowing in his heart that she couldn’t, that she was gone from his life forever. 

As he patiently pushed the sizzling beef around in the casserole, he pondered what was going to happen in four and a half hours. A woman was about to enter his home, his _life_ , and change it forever. Anne had been tolerable as long as he’d only had to put up with her a few times a month, at his penthouse, and on _his_ terms. But, despite her words, he was sure she would eventually show her true colors—just like all the women he’d ever known—and morph into a demanding, selfish, gold-digging shrew who wanted to control every minute of his life. But he needed that money, so . . . 

 _Money doesn’t nurture your soul. Money simply allows you to be physically comfortable in your misery._

“Easy for you to say, Mother,” he said. “You don’t have to live with that bastard controlling your every move anymore. And I don’t expect this money to make me happy. It’s going to buy my freedom. _Then_ , I’ll be happy.”

 _Happiness comes not from things, but from caring for others, from giving our unconditional love and acceptance to someone else without expecting anything in return. Happiness is connecting with another human being with the same depth that you connect with Claire. It will happen for you, Michael, but you have to meet it halfway._

He seriously doubted he would ever experience the kind of happiness his mother had spoken of. He seemed to be missing the requisite genes for forming meaningful bonds with people—even with Daniel, who seemed determined to look the other way or forgive him every time he violated one of the basic rules of human interaction. He’d let loose the reins on his temper, deliberately made hurtful comments during their conversations, opened the door to his entire wardrobe of filthy laundry for Daniel to see, hoping he’d see what a mess his new friend was and run as far away from him as possible. Despite all that, Daniel was still sticking around, which mystified him. His tried-and-true methods of preserving his introverted existence didn’t seem to be working anymore. 

“In a heatproof bowl, cover the chiles with boiling water and let stand until softened, 15 minutes; drain. Stem and seed the chiles and transfer to a blender. Add the coriander, cumin, mustard seeds, thyme, garlic cloves and one-third of the tomatoes; puree.”

As he worked, his mind wandered away from his mother’s words and off to that fantasy world which only existed in his imagination: a place where Daniel was that deep connection she’d spoken of, that unconditional love that would accept him as he was, broken pieces and all.

 _If you fail, I’ll still be here._ Not since his mother’s death had he heard any words of encouragement or support from his immediate family. One of his uncles, who lived clear across the country in Florida, and whom he hadn’t known from Adam, had approached him after the funeral, offering his address and phone number if he ever needed anything. He’d taken the piece of paper with the knowledge that he’d never call or write, and he never had. He wanted nothing to do with his father’s relatives, especially if they were anything like him.

But to get support from a total stranger like Daniel, whom he’d only known less than a month, was a complete anomaly in his world. He’d been nothing but a total dick since he’d met Daniel, certainly not the kind of behavior to deserve the level of loyalty the guy was offering him. It didn’t make any sense.

_You want it to make sense, though. That’s why you gave him the same support in return. You want what Daniel is offering. You want that connection, and you want it to evolve into something more, something **physical.**_

Images flooded his mind of shirtless Daniel, those loose sweat pants hanging tantalizingly low, exposing the tip of yet another tattoo running along his hipbone. In a brief moment of insanity, he’d had to fight the urge to reach out and slowly slide them off his hips, just so he could see the rest of the design, along with everything else hidden beneath that cheap cotton. Daniel’s physique was so different from his own—chiseled, muscular and covered with designs that he couldn’t even _begin_ to fathom the meaning of. Daniel’s body was like the art in a museum, and he suspected he’d need an entire night of slow exploration to even _begin_ to understand its story, which was never going to happen. He sighed aloud to an empty room.

As he selected the spices and checked their freshness, he forcibly pushed Daniel from his thoughts, reminding himself that a man with a full-time fake girlfriend—whom he’d foolishly promised to be physically faithful to, _in writing_ —could kiss a relationship with anyone else, let alone a _man_ , good-bye. Why did every single thing he wanted in life always seem to be just out of his reach?

“Shit.”

The thyme was expired—two months over the freshness date. He didn’t have the patience today for this nonsense. A part of him thought of just using it anyway; Anne, like most people, probably wouldn’t even notice. _If you’re not going to use the freshest ingredients in your dishes, then you might as well eat Taco Bell and be done with it._ Despite his annoyance, he chuckled softly at the memory of his mother imparting those words of wisdom with her mischievous smile.

The perfectionist inside him wouldn’t stand for mediocrity, especially when it came to cooking. He glanced at the clock. _Almost 6 a.m._ If he was lucky, his father would still be in bed, or at least in the shower and not downstairs yet. He could sneak in, borrow a bottle of fresh thyme from his kitchen, and sneak out again without having to interact with him. He grabbed a jacket, the keys to the Starter Castle—snickering once again at Daniel’s nickname for his pretentious childhood home—and headed out into the cool early dawn.

\-----------------------------------------------------

The foyer and living room were silent and dark. From the looks of things, his father had yet to rise from his gilded coffin upstairs. _So far, so good._ He turned the corner and was dismayed to see a warm glow in the kitchen coming from the light over the stove. His father was awake—damn it all—and sucking up his morning supply of caffeine, strengthening himself for another long day of making everyone around him suck his dick and obey his every command. _Get in, get the thyme, get out. Simple._ He steeled himself for whatever soul-crushing put-downs that were about to be thrown at him, then strode purposefully into the kitchen.

He stopped, surprised, when his gaze landed on a figure that was definitely _not_ his father. A teenage girl was sitting at the table, dressed all in black, a black baseball cap turned around backwards on her head, her hands wrapped around a glass of orange juice. She looked up, startled, gaping in shock at his sudden appearance in the room. The feeling was mutual.

“Who are _you?_ ” He knew she wasn’t part of the housekeeping staff, because they didn’t arrive until noon on Saturdays.

The girl shook her head. _Bitch, I didn’t ask you a yes or no question._ He studied her more closely: long, straight brown hair, large dark eyes looking at him with a mixture of curiosity and caution, and dusky skin the same hue as Dari’s, his three-day friend from childhood.  
   
“¿Habla Inglés?”  
  
The girl shook her head again. “Español.”

His Spanish vocabulary was as limited as his social skills. Except for coarse words like tito and puta, and the standard one-word greetings, the only phrase he knew was how to state his name. “Mi nombre es Michael Golland. Tu?”  With that sentence, he’d just reached the bottom of his Spanish Language Barrel.

“Carlotta.”

Then she gibbered some long explanation that he had no hope in hell of ever understanding. Since she wasn’t wielding a gun, and didn’t appear to pose any physical threat to him, he tuned her out and went to the pantry, quickly locating the thyme and hoping to make a quick exit before his father’s appearance. He made it out of the kitchen and just around the corner before he was intercepted by his Sperm Donor calmly strolling across the living room in his half-open Cucinelli bathrobe, his antiquated junk peeking out from between the folds.

He stopped and, thankfully, cinched the belt around his waist a little tighter. “Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?”

Michael smirked and pulled yet another arrow out of his Sarcasm Quiver. “I’ve heard of the concept, but I’ve never actually seen it employed.”

His father’s sense of humor was grossly underdeveloped most of the time, but before he’d had his morning coffee it was completely nonexistent. “What are you doing here?”

He held up the bottle of thyme. “Mine’s expired, and I’m making a pot of chili today. I’ll replace it the next time I order groceries.”

His dear old dad uttered a disinterested grunt, then headed off toward the kitchen.

“Have you hired a new girl for housekeeping?”

His father stopped and slowly turned around, his I’m-Hiding-Something expression firmly in place. “No. She’s in a bad spot and I’m helping her out.”

He knew his father like the back of his hand. ‘Bad spot’ could mean anything, but ‘helping her out’ meant fucking her. “Is she legal?”

“Her immigration status isn’t important,” he answered. “Helping her _is_.”

Her immigration status wasn’t important??? He wanted to laugh at loud at that blatant lie. His father secretly loathed the legal and illegal wetbacks he so fervently—and _publicly_ — supported at his Tax-Write-Off homeless shelter and numerous fundraising soirees. He had the entire population of Los Angeles fooled. Since he was acting all innocent, that was a sure sign he was anything but. “I wasn’t talking about her citizenship status. How _old_ is she?”

His father’s gaze turned a steely gray. “She’s old enough. Now, go back to your kitchen like a good little girl and mind your own business.”

Michael also knew his father well enough to know when he was being issued a serious threat, even if the actual words weren’t spoken. Whatever he was up to, Michael wanted no part of it. He had enough problems of his own to deal with. His father banging a barely legal girl was not one of them.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 _Ten o’clock on the dot._ Normally he admired punctuality in a person, but it wouldn’t have hurt his feelings a bit if she’d been a few hours late. He barged down the stairs, then waited impatiently at his front door for her arrival, his temper simmering like the chili on the stove. Minutes passed, long enough for her to have made it through the gate, parked her car, and walked up the stone path at a leisurely pace… _three times_. What was keeping her? The sooner they got this day started, the sooner it would be over with and he could get back to his normal routine.

 _Just treat Saturday like an interview._ Daniel’s words were like aloe on a sunburn, calming and restorative, and he was right. Michael was good at interrogating people and keeping them off balance while he gleaned important details from their nervous, unscripted comments.

The doorbell rang. His heart rate spiked; his pulse quickened. Right from the start, his inability to even control his own body angered him. He waited a few moments, forcing himself to relax, before calmly opening the door.

In direct contrast to his grumpiness, Anne was all smiles. She breezed past him and into the room, fanning the flames of his resentment even more with her over-the-top cheeriness.

“I thought I was going to have to send out a search party.”

She dropped her purse onto the nearest chair, shed her black leather jacket, then held it out for him to take. He lived in an English cottage. Did she think he had a hat-check room stashed away somewhere in a corner? He grudgingly took her coat and hung it on one of the _plainly visible_ hooks by the door.

“I was admiring your winter flower garden. It’s lovely. The pinks are stunning.”

He reluctantly murmured his thanks. The front flower garden was his pride and joy and no one’s hands but his ever touched it.  
  
While her gaze traveled slowly over every inch of his living room, he took inventory of _her:_ jeans tight enough for Daniel to have painted them on, a long-sleeved blue and white striped sweater, (he didn’t need a ‘highly-trained fashion consultant’ to know that horizontal stripes were only appropriate for emaciated runway models), and black ankle boots. Her outfit screamed Middle Class, but it was her hair that caught his attention. No ugly pony tail today; she was wearing it long and loose. Since he only touched her hair during their scenes together—wrapping it around his fist and pulling until she begged him to stop—he found it odd that he suddenly wanted to run his fingers through it.

“Your home is beautiful,” she said softly, turning in slow circle, her eyes sweeping over every piece of décor. “So different from your penthouse. Did you decorate it yourself?”

He had no choice but to answer truthfully. “This was my mother’s home. She designed it from the ground up and personally chose all the furnishings.”

Anne stopped her appraisal and turned to him, her dark eyes probing, reminding him of Daniel in therapy mode. “Was?”

He ground his teeth. Two minutes into this visit and he was already telling her things he never wanted her to know. In an emotionless voice, he answered, “She died when I was sixteen and left this house to me. I haven’t changed anything in it and I never will.”

Her gaze softened. “You were very close.” Before he could ask her how in the world she could possibly know that, she continued. “It must be comforting for you to live here, like she has her arms wrapped around you all the time.”

Stunned, he struggled to keep his emotional balance. She understood why he lived in a sea of Eighties Blue, English lace, and chintz and loved every minute of it. He wasn’t even sure if Daniel understood—though he’d never said a single unkind word about the décor during his visits—but Anne totally got it. Her intuitiveness instantly made him wary. _Time to change the subject._

“What does _your_ house look like inside?”

She smiled mischievously. “Today is about you, Michael. You’ll find out about my house next Saturday.” He opened his mouth to object. What if he had plans next Saturday? He didn’t, of course, but he was sure he could find _something_ to use as an excuse. Before he could speak a word, she closed her eyes and inhaled. “What is that amazing smell?”

“Three-Chile Beef Chili,” he answered. “Our lunch.”

Her eyes widened in appreciation and she smiled. “Yum. But it’s a little early for lunch. Why don’t you show me around?”

He gritted his teeth again, but gave her the first floor tour: the blue kitchen, the beige and blue laundry room, the two solid beige guest bedrooms, and the downstairs bath. Exciting stuff _._ She exclaimed several times that his home felt so authentic, that if she didn’t already know she was in Los Angeles, she would think she was in Oxfordshire. In an attempt at small talk, he asked her if she’d ever visited Oxfordshire. She admitted she hadn’t, but she loved England and would sacrifice her right tit to go there. He could only assume a right tit was as valuable as a left nut, as he had no interest in her tits, no matter their position on her chest. But he kept that observation to himself.

Next came his four-lane lap pool, with its small pool house. She admired it, but admitted she was terrified of water and had never learned to swim. _Strike One._ But at least he’d never have to share it with her. He floated the idea of an early lunch, but she nixed it yet again. “What about the upstairs?”

The way things were going, he would soon have to wear his dental night guard during the daytime, especially when in her company for any length of time. The upstairs was his private space, where every important refuge in his life—except for the barn—was located. Daniel had invaded it once because he’d had to go there to get his checkbook for bail, but just letting Anne stroll into his sanctuary and pass judgment on his things infuriated him. _Eight figures, Michael. To get it you have to play nice, remember?_ Suppressing a sigh, he gestured toward the stairs, allowing her to go first.

 -----------------------------------------------------------

“Oh my God.” Her eyes roved over every inch of his library, her fingers tenderly brushing along the leather and paper spines. Finally, she turned her gaze his way, her eyes sparkling. “You love the written word.”

“Yes.” His love of reading had been birthed and nurtured by his mother. While other children had been drowning in a sea of mindless toys, he had spent his youth immersed in literature.

Anne sighed and lowered her voice. “It angers me sometimes, that life is so short. There are so many books out there I haven’t read. Do you ever feel that way?”

He nodded. “All the time. Sometimes I think about building an addition to house a larger library.” The room was small, but it was packed from floor to ceiling with their favorite books. The two chairs they’d lounged on while they’d read were worn and needed replacing, but he couldn’t bear to let go of them. Each time he considered the idea he’d eventually dismissed it.

“It wouldn’t be the same,” she said softly, mirroring his thoughts.

“No,” he agreed, a little uneasy at her ability to see inside his head. In that regard, she was too much like Daniel for his comfort.

“Have you read them all?” she asked.

“All but those.” He pointed to his TBR shelf, which contained twelve full length novels, four nonfiction titles, and one short novella.

She chuckled. “My To-Be-Read pile is about the same size, too, and growing a little more every day. So, what about your bedroom?” A seductive smile. “I’m _very_ interested in seeing _that_.”

He made a mental note to spank her a lot harder during their next scene. She was going to pay dearly for this intrusion into his personal life. He could hardly wait to feel the sting.

  
\-------------------------------------------------------

 

He stood in the doorway and watched uncomfortably as she slowly made her way around his bedroom, taking her time, drinking in every single piece of artwork on the walls. She’d made no comment about his obviously feminine rail bed. No mention of the porcelain what-nots of his mother’s that still dotted the surfaces of the furniture.

She stopped in front of the Seurat, his favorite painting. “La Grande Jatte. I wrote a paper on this for my Art Ed class in college.” She turned to him and giggled. “Want to hear something funny?” Without waiting for his answer—which was a definitive no—she continued. “When I was a little girl, I was totally in awe of that woman’s ass. She’s wearing a bustle, of course, but back then I didn’t know that. I just knew I wanted an ass like that when I grew up.”

He didn’t even know how to respond to that comment. This was probably one of those times when he was expected to insert a meaningless reassurance into the conversation that her ass looked just fine to him as long as he got to whip it with a riding crop every now and then. He attempted a half-hearted chuckle and left it at that.

Next she stopped in front of _Silent Scream_ —a morbid painting if there ever was one, but he absolutely loved it, which was why it was directly opposite his bed, so it was the first thing he saw upon awakening every morning. That painting was his biography on canvas. It reassured him to know that someone else on this earth could relate to his pain, that he wasn’t alone in his misery.

“What a profound statement,” she said softly. “Beautiful.”

He was surprised at her assessment. His father loathed it, which made him love it even more than he already did.

She moved on, slowly making her way across the room to Daniel’s painting. He had to admit, he couldn’t wait to see her reaction to it. After silently admiring a grouping of Audubon prints, she was finally standing in front of _Patch of Grass_.

“What a disturbing image,” she said, reaching out to touch it, even though it was encased in glass. “It looks so real.” She pulled her hand back, then shivered. “It gives me chills.”

“That’s Daniel’s work.”

She turned, her eyes wide with surprise. “Daniel’s an artist??”

He nodded. “He works at GEM, in our marketing department. Logos and things like that.” He moved to join her, until they were standing side-by-side in front of Daniel’s masterpiece.

“Damn,” she swore softly. “The guy has some serious talent. Do you know what inspired this?”

He wished he knew. He’d spent an entire sleepless night staring at that painting and trying to figure it out. He still didn’t have a definitive answer.

“No idea. What do _you_ think is happening in it?”

She didn’t even hesitate. “Trauma. Look at the hand. The knuckles are white. Whoever this person is, he’s experiencing horrendous physical pain.”

Michael swallowed hard, hoping that Daniel’s painting wasn’t also a biography on canvas, even though his instincts were screaming at him that it was.

“And the ants,” she continued. “Look at how the subject is focusing so closely on them. That signifies _emotional_ trauma, our mind’s way of helping us deal. He’s zeroing in on something immediate—the ants—as a way to block his mind from thinking about what’s happening to him.”

“And what _is_ happening to him?” he asked softly.

“I don’t know,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “And I’m not sure I _want_ to know.”

But he did. He desperately wanted to know the story behind this painting. He _needed_ to know it. Because if what he suspected was true, then Daniel was silently suffering, too.

She backed away from the painting and sighed, rubbing her arms to warm them. “I think I’m ready for that chili now.”

\--------------------------------------------------------

“You really made this all by yourself? Like, you actually put all the ingredients together in a pot and cooked it on the stove? You don’t employ a cook?”

“Employ a cook??” He was offended at the very thought of someone else preparing the food he put into his body, which was why he hated dining out. “No, I cook my own meals, Anne.  I usually make everything from scratch, but I was forced to use a recipe today because I was short on time.”

“You cook your own meals,” she repeated.

Was she hard of hearing? “I’m actually a gourmet cook. My mother taught me so I wouldn’t grow up to be a helpless man who just takes up space in front of the television. _Her_ words, not mine.”

Her mouth dropped open. “You’re a _gourmet_ cook??”

Maybe he should talk slower. Instead, he just nodded.

After she got over her shock, he discovered that she hated cooking, and only did the minimal amount necessary to keep from starving to death. _Strike two._ But at least he wouldn’t have to share his kitchen with her.

She went on to proclaim that if it weren’t for fast food franchises, she would probably already be dead. _Good god. Strike three, four, five and six._ How could he possibly fake-date someone who actually liked fast food?? This was a disaster in the making. If he didn’t bring his own food to her house next week, he would probably be eating frozen pizza out of a box.

“I’ll make us some lobster salad for next Saturday.” He couldn’t believe he’d said those words without grimacing. He wasn’t looking forward to going to her house, _at all_ , but at least he’d have something good to eat while he was trying to keep from slitting his own throat.

She plopped her elbows on the table (note: no table manners), cradled her chin in her hands, and gave him one of those ridiculous dreamy smiles that women so often employed to get their way. “I think I’m in love,” she said, sighing dramatically, then she snorted a laugh. “I have an idea! I think we should fake-date, then get fake-engaged, then get fake-married! What do _you_ think?”

Surprisingly, he laughed at her joke. It was either that or cry.

“Let’s go outside,” he said, pushing away from the table. “I have something I want you to see.”

She rubbed her hands together in anticipation. “Ooh, sounds mysterious.”

\------------------------------------------------------------

“What is this?”

They were sitting in his Jeep; the sky was overcast. A feeling of déjà vu suddenly swept over him.

“It’s a barn.”

She made a soft sound, like a groan or something. “Cows live in barns.” She grimaced. “I don’t really like cows… _or_ barns, Michael.”

The déjà vu intensified. It could have been Daniel sitting beside him instead of this woman who was terrified of water, didn’t like to cook, and now didn’t like barns, or cows. (Who didn’t like cows??). He was starting to wonder if the money was worth it. Shit. Who was he kidding? He was a pathetically materialistic and greedy bastard. Money was the _only_ thing that made his fucked up shit of a life worth it. He suppressed a sigh.

“I don’t own any cows. Just horses.”

She shivered. “Worse. I don’t like horses either. They scare me.”

 _Cunt._ His temper ignited. He was on the verge of telling her to go fuck herself and just get out of his Jeep. Horses were the purest souls on this earth and it was massively stupid to be afraid of them. _To hell with this._ He’d find someone else to take Anne’s place. He quickly ran down the depressingly short list: There was Trudy. She was short a man and had a disabled son who needed a fake daddy; he could sweeten the deal by agreeing to pay the kid’s doctor bills. Or maybe that girl who brewed the coffee in the break room. Her name escaped him and always would, but she had a menial job and would jump at the chance to latch onto a millionaire. She might even make a halfway decent submissive. She was terrified of him and darted away like a cockroach every time he walked into the room. Or maybe Randee. She could spend a few years of her ‘highly trained fashion consultant’ life fixing everything that was wrong with his wardrobe while he ignored her twenty-three hours out of the day. It could work.   

“I’m sorry,” she said suddenly, jerking him out of his ridiculous thoughts. “I’m being a bitch, aren’t I? It’s just that I had an unfortunate incident with a pony at a state fair when I was little. It scarred me for life.”

Her explanation was so absurd he laughed before he remembered he was supposed to be pissed and kicking her out of his Jeep and his life.

“I know,” she said, chuckling with him. “It’s sounds completely ridiculous, but you have to understand. I was just a tiny little thing, and that pony looked like a brown and white Godzilla to me. I slid off the damned thing—no saddle, which was crazy; my mom should have sued—and I landed in the mud flat on my back. And that asshole pony just walked right over top of me, like I wasn’t even there! He stepped on my calf, _twice_ , before anyone could get me out of the way. I had a bruise the size of a small country for weeks. So, I’m not buying that whole Horsies-Are-So-Cute-and-Cuddly thing, Michael. It’s a lie.”

He laughed even harder. She glared at him for a few moments, then eventually joined in. His best and strongest submissive—the one woman in his stable of whores who could handle him at his cruelest, and even beg for _more_ —was afraid of ponies. When he was finally able to stop laughing, he gave her a short lesson on horses. They rarely ever deliberately hurt anyone, only inflicting injury when they were extremely stressed, afraid, or unable to avoid it.

“Your fair pony was attached to those rods that made sure they walked in a circle. It was an accident, Anne. The ponies they use at those fairs are extremely mild tempered. They wouldn’t hurt a fly. You weren’t being attacked; he just couldn’t sidestep you because of the restraints. I’m sure he was just as upset over it as you were.”

She shot him a skeptical look, but didn’t argue. “You’re going to make me go in there, aren’t you?”

He nodded. “Yes. I’m going to introduce you to Claire, and if she gives you her stamp of approval then you’re officially a good person.”

“Why does this suddenly feel like an interview,” she mumbled under her breath. But he heard, and he smiled. After an entire morning of feeling completely off balance in her presence, he was finally standing on solid ground again, confident and in charge. Claire was the best judge of character he’d ever met in his life, and if Anne didn’t pass her smell test, then she was out on her ass. He’d tear up that contract in a heartbeat and start all over from scratch.

She sighed. “Okay, let’s do this.”

\--------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Trying to balance Anne’s fear with a horse's natural ability to sense that fear and suddenly turn skittish wasn’t easy, but he was in his comfort zone in that barn. He knew what he was doing, and he knew the three creatures who lived there better than his own family. Before long, he managed to get Anne to actually stand beside Claire without freaking out, after repeated warnings to not ever walk behind a horse because some were unpredictably ill-tempered, like a child. She tentatively stroked Claire’s neck, gingerly ran her fingers through her thick mane, and eventually was comfortable enough to feed her some carrots. She was a long way from getting on her back for a ride, but he was secretly pleased that Anne was brave enough to face her fears. She possessed an inner strength that he admired and wished he had himself. As did Daniel…

Jamie was a different story, though. He advised Anne to keep a safe distance from him, not because he would purposely hurt her—he wouldn’t; Jamie wasn’t a spiteful creature—but because he was a different soul. He reminded Michael of himself sometimes: slow to warm up to strangers and always wary of everyone’s motives.

Surprisingly, Anne immediately bonded with Sam, the goat. Michael watched, amused, as she stooped down and wrapped her arms around him, giving him a bear hug that most animals wouldn’t tolerate for a second. But, Sam was an affable soul; he bleated a little in half-hearted protest, stamped his feet a couple of times in fake outrage, but he was also an attention whore. He secretly loved Anne’s hugs and childish little coos about how adorable and precious he was. Sam ate that shit up with zero shame.

“Sam’s just like those little rugrats in my class,” she observed, smiling. “All they want is a hug to let them know someone cares.”  She stood up and brushed the hay from her jeans. “So, did I pass muster with Claire?”

“She didn’t bite your hand off like the last fake-girlfriend I brought here, so I think you’re approved.”

She laughed. He smiled. This day hadn’t turned out the way he’d thought it would. Despite his moments of discomfort and fleeting anger, he’d actually had fun overall, which he found strange.

“When do I get a tour of that mansion in your back yard?”

“Maybe next time. My father has company this weekend.” The last thing she needed to see was the live-action version of _Daddy Does Carlotta._ Then _she’d_ be the one tearing up their contract and running for the hills. He’d had his entire life to become accustomed to the moral dysfunction in his family. Someone like Anne—or even Daniel, despite everything he already knew—wasn’t ready for the full-length, _uncensored_ version.

“What about a ride in the Lambo? Us gold-diggers have a reputation to uphold, you know.” She sniffed haughtily, unknowingly reminding him of Cunt Camilla. “I can’t be seen out in public in a raggedy old Jeep.”

He smirked, amused at her impersonation, and fairly confident now that she probably wasn’t a brainless gold digger. “Sorry. I don’t own a Lambo, a Porsche, _or_ a Ferrari. You’re stuck with my Jeep or Claire’s back.”

“You’re the weirdest millionaire I’ve ever met.”

 _And you’re quite possibly the nicest woman I’ve ever met._ But he didn’t say that aloud. It was too soon to declare her human just yet. The women he’d known were notoriously good at hiding their true natures in the beginning, but eventually they’d all shown their true colors. So, he wasn’t going to let one halfway enjoyable day with Anne cloud his judgment. Like Jamie, he was wary and cautious, so he needed to exercise patience and keep an emotional distance until the final verdict was in.

“I’m free the rest of the night,” she said softly, catching his eye for a split second, then dropping her gaze to the ground in a move that always gave him a control rush.

It had been way too long since he’d felt the pleasurable sting of inflicting pain. He needed to have physical power over another person to stay sane. He needed Anne tonight.

“We’re going to my penthouse and you’re going to stay overnight.”

He’d never demanded that of her before—spending an entire night with one of his whores was his idea of a living nightmare—but he had a lot of pent-up frustration that needed a safe outlet. It was going take him much longer tonight to find his equilibrium again.

“Yes,” she answered softly. “I’ll stay as long as you need me.”

 

**ANNE'S "MIDDLE CLASS" OUTFIT**

 

 _ **SATURDAY AFTERNOON ON THE ISLAND OF LA GRANDE JATTE**_ **by Georges Seurat**

** **

_**  
SILENT SCREAM** _ **by Diana Dobson Barton (2002)**

** **

 

**MICHAEL'S HOME LIBRARY**

** **


	31. Benefits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You will meet a new character in this chapter. Like Miranda Pierce (Randee), he will play a small, but IMPORTANT, role in Michael and Daniel's life.

“Daniel.”

Someone was speaking, calling his name, totally effing up the amazing dream he was having. _Leave me alone._ Then that same someone was shaking him, causing his head to loll from side-to-side like he was a rag doll.

“Daniel…sugar…wake up.”

_Go away._

“You gotta rise and shine, Sweet T. It’s past noon.”

Reluctantly, he floated to the surface and opened his eyes. He was confused at first, wondering why he wasn’t still on the beach. And who had painted his ceiling light purple while he’d been sunbathing in Hawaii? A few moments passed, then coherence slowly returned; he remembered, or at least he remembered _most_ of it. He wasn’t at home in his own bed because he’d spent the night with Jarrod in his Drag-Queen-Lavender bedroom.

He grimaced, then moaned at the dull throb in his head. Jarrod was sitting on the side of the bed staring at him with sympathy in his hazel eyes. He looked hot as hell—as he always did, even on his worst mornings—with his sex-tousled blonde hair and high cheekbones. They weren’t as sharp and beautiful as Michael’s but, unfortunately, they were still quite boner-worthy. Daniel stifled a sigh at his ridiculous lack of self-control.

“How bad?” Jarrod asked.

He tested the waters by lifting his head. Only a brief flash of pain stabbed his temple, then it was gone. He propped himself up on his elbows; the throbbing intensified but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle. His stomach was a little queasy, but he was a long way from blowing chunks. “I’m good. Nothing a couple of Alleves won’t fix.”

Jarrod shook his head. “You crossfaded last night. You’re dehydrated. You need water worse than you need pills. Here.”

An ice cold Dasani found its way into his hand.

“Make yourself presentable, sugar, then meet me in the kitchen.” Jarrod threw him one of his signature We’re-Definitely-Going-to-Talk-About-This looks over his shoulder as he left the room.  
  
He downed half the bottle of water in one go, then steeled himself. Sighing aloud this time, he gingerly dragged himself out of bed and plodded to the adjoining bathroom; the eyes of Jarrod’s numerous wig-heads seemed to follow him in disapproval as he went. He pissed out the Long Islands from last night at the Lakers game, washed his hands, then stared at himself in the mirror over the sink. 

For someone who’d spent the previous night in Dysregulated Behavior Mode, he looked pretty damned good. He always did after a night of self-destructive acting out, which was how he’d managed to hide his emotional dysfunction from the world at large his entire life.  Smoking weed at his house first, then following that up with rum, gin, vodka and tequila at the Staples Center should have at least given him two bleary, bloodshot eyes and a compelling need to hug Jarrod’s toilet. Instead, his gaze was clear, he’d slept like a baby with no nightmares, his head was hurting—but that was to be expected—and his stomach was only roiling a little. Regardless of the fact that he’d emerged from the ordeal relatively unscathed, he made a silent promise to the man staring back at him that his night of punishing himself for his inadequacies was a one-off that would _never_ happen again.

_Your promise is just empty words and not supported by research. You will repeat the destructive behavior because it gives you temporary relief from the pain in your life that you’re refusing to deal with._

How many times had he said those very words to someone who was struggling with addictive behaviors, self-harm or chronic avoidance? Who was he to think he could help others, including Michael, when he couldn’t even fix his own fucked up life?

“Do as I say, not as I do,” he murmured softly to his reflection. There were actual statistics to back up the fact that many therapists were as fucked up as their patients. He’d been one of those statistics. Still was.

Cursing himself, he broke eye contact with his reflection, splashed water on his face, toweled off, then headed back to the bedroom to check his phone. One missed call from Cam; he’d deal with that later. No call or text from his tall, dark and delicious friend who’d been about to emotionally fall apart Thursday at the very idea of a female invading the sanctity of his English cottage. Since he hadn’t heard from him, Daniel assumed his fake girlfriend had either murdered him or Michael had somehow ended up enjoying her company. He couldn’t decide which of those scenarios was worse.

Sighing yet again, he dressed, tucked his phone into his back pocket, and headed to the kitchen, mentally preparing to face Jarrod and the consequences of his stupid behavior.

 

* * *

 

He slowly pushed the plate of scrambled eggs to the farthest reaches of the table where his stomach couldn’t see them. Jarrod slowly pushed them back, insisting he needed the amino acids in them to break down the acetaldehyde that was causing his headache. _Thank you, Mother Jarrod._

“Well, the amino acids won’t do me any good if I barf them back up into your lap.”

Jarrod chuckled. “Point taken.”

While Jarrod ate he tried not to watch and, instead, concentrated on finishing his water. In between shoveling eggs, Jarrod eyed him occasionally, his gorgeous eyes gleaming with amused curiosity. _Stop with the gorgeous eyes shit_ , he admonished himself, _and figure out how you’re going to explain your juvenile melt down last night._

Finally, the guy came up for air. “So, who’d you have to blow to score that sweet set-up at the Staples Center last night?”

 _If only._ “It wasn’t like that. I did a big favor for someone and they were grateful.”

Jarrod’s eyes widened; he whistled his appreciation for whatever big favor that must have been. Thankfully, he didn’t ask for details, and returned to his breakfast.  

Just to have something to do while Jarrod ate—and to take his mind off those distracting cheekbones—he cautiously slid a grape into his mouth, hoping his stomach wouldn’t take offense, and wondering how to gracefully extricate himself from this awkward situation. To very loosely paraphrase one of his mom’s wise sayings: “When all else fails, just don’t be a douche.”  That seemed the best course of action.

“Thanks for having my back last night, and not letting me get behind the wheel.”

Jarrod nodded. “Welcome. Cam and one his friends drove your car to your house.”

 _Now for the awkward part._ “And about the other…I really needed that. It’s been awhile. So, uhm, thanks for that, too.”

He held his breath, embarrassed at admitting his utter failure at upholding the Gay-Men-Fuck-Everything-Moving stereotype, but also hoping it would garner him some sympathy.

Jarrod chuckled. “What good is an ex-boyfriend if you can’t get a few benefits every now and then? It’s all good, Sweet T. Everything else between us might have been shit, but the sex was always mind-blowing.”

He smiled in agreement because it was the polite thing to do but, truthfully, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had mind-blowing sex. Well, actually he _could_ , but... _Don’t go there! Wasn’t last night punishment enough??_ He forcibly slammed shut the door to his past which seemed a little too loose on its hinges lately. The physical part of his relationships had always felt off because he just hadn’t found the right person yet. _Yes, that’s all it is._ But of course, he also was an expert at chronic avoidance when it came to his own issues. It might not have been mind-blowing, but at least last night had taken the edge off a little. Hopefully his constant compulsion to throw Michael down on the floor, rip off his tailor made designer slacks, and fuck him until he begged for mercy would ease up some now.

Jarrod finally pushed his plate to the side and honed in on him like a hawk on a rabbit, his striking hazel eyes turning beady and probing.  “What’s going on with you, Daniel.”

Jarrod was one of those people who assigned nicknames to everyone in his life. If he didn’t give someone a nickname he didn’t like them. As soon as Jarrod had discovered that Tobias was his middle name, he’d immediately dubbed him ‘Sweet T’. He only called him ‘Daniel’ when shit was about to get real.

“Nothing’s going on.”

Jarrod gave him a Cut-the-Bullshit look. “Cam said you were already high when you got to the game, and then you started in on the alcohol after that. Spill it.”

“I’m fine. _Really.”_

Jarrod shook his head, sat back in his chair and sighed. “See? This is why we only lasted two months. These sharing issues of yours drove me crazy. Still do.”

What could he say? Unlike Jarrod, he couldn’t just hop onto that Confess-Everything-to-Everyone bus and ride. Jarrod was an open book; everyone in Los Angeles knew his whole life story. If a pimple so much as popped up on his ass, Jarrod had to tell somebody about it. That was just how the guy rolled, and over-sharing could drive a person crazy, too. Water under the bridge, though. He wasn’t trying to bring up all their relationship baggage again. Sleeping with him last night had been mistake enough.

“I hope you don’t take last night the wrong way,” he blurted out before he thought. _Shit._ He sounded like an egotistical ass who thought he was God’s gift to the queer world.

To his surprise, Jarrod laughed. “Sugar, my momma always said people come into your life for a reason, to teach you something. You taught me that sexy, brooding artists are creatures best observed from afar. All that time you spent communing with your muse. Ugh. Last night was great, honey, but I’m not sniffing around your panties anymore. I’m not the torch-carrying kind of guy.”

That was a relief. “And _you_ taught _me_ that ADHD drag queens who moonlight as accountants _and_ tattoo artists are best observed from afar, too.”  He chuckled. “It was fun for a while but, damn, you wore my ass _out_ , dude.”

Laughing at the knowledge that they were much better apart than together, they gently bumped fists. He was finally able to relax and not beat himself up so much over his horny lapse in judgment.

“How are things going with _you?_ ” he asked, hoping to permanently steer the conversation away from his behavior last night.

“Well, if you ever showed your face at Napoleon’s anymore you’d know the answer to that.” Jarrod puffed out his chest with pride. “You’re looking at the new headliner. Selena Sugar is now the club’s premier attraction.”

He was genuinely pleased that Jarrod had finally attained one of his life’s goals. “That’s great, man. Congratulations!”

The fact that Jarrod was a drag queen had been one of the things that had attracted him in the first place. Well, that and the guy’s amazing cheekbones. The psychology behind the drag scene had always fascinated him. He’d given a thoroughly researched presentation on the subject in one of his college Psych courses and had received a gush of praise—and an A—from his professor for his efforts.

“I see those little shrink-wheels turning in your brain,” Jarrod said with a soft chuckle. “Give it up, honey. I don’t have an ounce of psychopathy in my body. I do drag because I love dressing up in women’s clothes, and I’m an attention-starved hussy. Period. It’s fun, and pays good, too.” He winked. ”In cash _and_ trade.”

He wasn’t kidding about the trade part. Jarrod was well-known in the local gay community for his exceptional BJ skills, which he freely shared with his loyal groupies. He promised Jarrod he’d get to Napoleon’s as soon as he could to catch the new show. Maybe he could convince Michael to tag along, too. It would do him good to see openly gay men dancing, socializing and just having fun like everyone else. Maybe it would help ease him out of his closet just a little. _Baby steps._

It was time to put a punctuation mark on this disastrous weekend. “I really need to get home. Things to do…”

Jarrod sat back in his chair, showing zero interest in getting up and driving his hungover—and emotionally drained—ex-boyfriend home. He shifted his gaze to Jarrod’s forearm skull tat to avoid the penetrating stare burning a hole in him from across the table. Jarrod was easy going most of the time, but when he got it into his head that someone he cared about was in trouble, there was no distracting him.

“You’re not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on. Your behavior last night was _not_ the Daniel I know. Something’s up.”

“Fine. I’ll call Cam. _He_ can take me home,” he snapped in frustration.

Jarrod smiled smugly. “Cam crashed with Aaron last night. I imagine shuttling your ass home is pretty low down on his list of things to do right about now. Talk to me.”

 _Arrogant asshole._ Suddenly, it occurred to him that Jarrod’s resemblance to Michael was about way more than just his beautiful cheekbones—although he had a long way to go until he reached Michael’s Master Level of Class Snobbery and Know-It-All-Ism.

They had a stare-down moment across the table, one that could have gone on for record-breaking time except that he really wanted to get home and try to salvage what little was left of this crap weekend.

“Fine,” he said with a sigh. “I made this stupid New Year’s resolution. I decided I should have a gallery opening next year, since I’m supposedly wildly talented and all that bullshit.” He grimaced at the raw bitterness in his voice. “But when I sat down in front of a canvas yesterday morning, I couldn’t do anything. I stared at that easel forever, and got absolutely nothing. Finally, I _did_ manage to get some sketches out, but they were pure shit. I trashed them all, gave up, and got high instead.”

 _Jesus._ He sounded like the whiniest pothead loser on the planet. His urge to crawl under the kitchen table and hide his overheated face was overwhelming.

Jarrod chuckled. “If I got high every time I created a pile of steaming shit, I’d be able to score the lead role in a _Cheech & Chong_ remake with just my fumes.” Then with a sympathetic look, his voice softened. “All us creative types have our dry spells, and you’re no exception. You’re too hard on yourself sometimes. So you hit a wall yesterday. So what? It happens. Forget about it and move on. And if you ask me, you should ditch that whole New Year’s resolution thing and just hang out with your muse a little more. No one ever follows through with those dumb things anyway; they’re a total waste of time.”

It was becoming disturbingly uncanny just how much Jarrod and Michael were alike, which shouldn’t have surprised him, considering that, psychologically, humans tended to gravitate toward certain ‘types’ over the course of their mating lives. But thinking of Michael, and trying to figure out why he hadn’t called or texted about his afternoon with the FG, only made him more frustrated. He was obsessing over the guy like a preteen girl over her first crush, which was most likely why his muse was on vacation at the moment.

“Yeah, I think I’ll take that advice and just ditch the resolution.” Even though he’d said it just so Jarrod would hurry up and drive him home, he suddenly felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He rose from the table, ready to leave.

“Uhm, not so fast, Sweet T,” Jarrod said with a small, sly grin, nodding toward the table and silently commanding him to sit back down. He gave up and obeyed, since Jarrod currently had possession of the only car _and_ its keys. “Tell me about him.”

 _Shit._ “About who?”

A disappointed head shake. “Come on now. Don’t play that game with me. There’s a hot guy in this mess somewhere.” Then Jarrod smiled sweetly and batted his eyelashes, instantly transforming into his female alter ego; he was totally believable even without the dress, wig, and makeup. “Tell Selena Sugar all about it, dahlin’. Your deep, dark, and… _decadent_ …secrets are always safe with _me._ ”

He chuckled softly because, the truth was, he was head-over-heels in love with Selena Sugar. (He didn’t even _want_ to think about the psychology behind that weirdness, and had purposely avoided doing so during the entirety of their relationship.) It was Jarrod Donahey, the _man_ , and his unpredictable, hyperactive lifestyle that had worn him out and ultimately led to their breakup.

“He’s a work of art,” he observed softly, even though that description couldn’t even _begin_ to accurately describe the complex beauty of Michael Golland.

Jarrod instantly fell out of his drag persona and gaped in silence for a few shocked moments. “Wow. This is serious.”

He nodded. He’d never been so thoroughly obsessed with anyone in his entire life. The psychologist side of his brain understood that that kind of obsession was emotionally unhealthy, but he seemed powerless to stop it.

“Okaaay,” Jarrod said, slowly dragging out the word. “It’s obvious there’s a complication, so what is it?”

A defeated sigh slid out of his throat. “He’s closeted. Just for clarification’s sake, I asked him point blank if he was gay, and his answer was: ‘I don’t know what I am.’”

Jarrod visibly flinched. “Ouch.”

“Yeah,” he agreed softly. After a moment’s hesitation, he added, “And he has a girlfriend.”  Of course, she was a _fake_ girlfriend, but he couldn’t tell Jarrod that. And besides, after this weekend, was she still fake or had she moved into the Real Girlfriend category? Michael’s continued silence worried him.

“This is a bad situation for you, Daniel. You need to cut your losses and move on. Closeted men are the worst. You know this.”

Yeah, he knew, but that knowledge didn’t change anything. “You can’t help who you love, right?” It was a stupid platitude, but also his only defense against what was probably going to be yet another failed relationship to add to his collection.

Jarrod gave him a sympathetic look that spoke volumes, then he sighed. “No truer words, man. So, if he’s the boy you want, then I say go after him. Forget about The Good Sportsmanship Award and just do whatever you have to do to bring him over to our side. Life’s too short to play fair when it comes to love.”

He acknowledged Jarrod’s sage advice with a distracted nod. His mind was racing, latching onto that ‘do whatever you have to do’ part like a drowning man clinging desperately to a quickly deflating life raft. He felt like his optimum window of opportunity was shrinking with every passing moment, especially since this ‘fake girlfriend’ had suddenly moved into the picture. He needed to step up his game, and fast.

“On the other hand, it’s a delicate operation coaxing a closet case out into the open,” Jarrod continued softly, his expression suddenly serious. “You need to be very careful how you go about this, Daniel. Remember Matthew. . .”

He nodded. _Remember Matthew._ How could he forget? The circumstances surrounding Matthew Shepard’s murder were permanently etched into the mind of every living gay man he knew, forever painting gay-straight social interactions with a justifiably paranoid brush. But despite the fact that Michael had exhibited violent tendencies when angered, he could honestly say he’d never felt physically unsafe in his presence. Besides, he’d openly flirted with Michael at the Christmas party and also during his faux-interview the following morning, and he’d lived to tell about both. From a psychological standpoint, it was apparent that Michael’s short fuse seemed to burn hot and fast only for women. At least he _hoped_ it did.

Before he agreed to drive him home, Jarrod made him pinky swear that he’d proceed with caution and, above all else, make his physical safety the number one priority.

“I can’t tap that fine, sexy ass if it’s laid up in the hospital.” Jarrod snickered at his own light-hearted joke but he knew that deep down Jarrod’s concern for his safety was heartfelt and real.

After a promise that he’d be careful, he made a beeline for the door with Jarrod trailing behind him, car keys in hand. He just wanted to go home and vegetate for the rest of the day. No art. No television. No music. No pressure. Just blessed quiet and solitude so he could think without distractions. But before he could even open the door, Jarrod grabbed his arm.

“Hold up a minute.”

He turned to find Jarrod all up in his personal space, their bodies inches apart. He started to back away but, before he could, Jarrod touched his face, lightly tracing the contour of his jawline with a lone finger. Then he dropped his hand.

“Just because you’re not the right man for _me_ doesn’t mean I don’t recognize good boyfriend material when I see it. You’re one of the good guys, Daniel. You’re going to make some lucky man one hell of a fabulous life-partner.”

_If only that were true. . ._

A hazel glare. “I see that look—and I know what you’re thinking—but it’s true.”

It seemed like Jarrod wanted to say more but, thankfully, he left it at that. A spontaneous Front-Door-Conversation wasn’t nearly enough time to wade through all his emotional and relationship baggage. He immediately gave himself a mental kick to the shins. If he was going to win Michael over to the fabulous side, he couldn’t let himself get sucked down into the self-recriminations swamp.

“And if you ever need anything, you call me,“ Jarrod continued. “Don’t even hesitate. If you need your taxes done, some new ink, a place to crash and burn without judgment—” He grinned crookedly. “Maybe some benefits now and then, whatever. I’m here.”

He nodded, touched at Jarrod’s soulless generosity, despite the fact that he’d made the guy miserable during their brief relationship. Jarrod was definitely good boyfriend material, too, just not for _him._

Jarrod’s gentle goodbye kiss caught him by surprise. There was no heat in it, no promise of more of the urgent sex they’d engaged in last night. It was simply a soft reminder that Jarrod’s heart was a place of refuge if he ever needed it.

All things considered, he couldn’t have asked for a better ex.

 

**JARROD DONAHEY aka SELENA SUGAR**

** **

 


	32. Connection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's been a long time coming, and I apologize for that. My only nephew passed away in January of complications from AIDS. He was the inspiration for my decision to write a male/male story to begin with, and there was a lot of him written into Devon Stafford's character (Cameron's deceased lover). 
> 
> I've recently joined a Camp NaNoWriMo so that's helped motivate me to write. It feels good to get back into these characters' lives again. I hope you enjoy the chapter and I'd love to hear what you think about it. Comments keep me motivated! :)

He was dying. His lungs expanded then painfully contracted, his pressing need for air bringing with it a terrifying panic. He tried to kick back up to the surface—he could see the sunlight filtering through the murky water above him—but his lead weight legs dragged him down instead. As he plummeted toward the darkness, he opened his mouth and screamed. Water immediately flooded his lungs, crushing his chest like a diver who’d gone too deep. Hysteria stole his reason. Despite knowing it was hopeless, he screamed again, flailing his arms and legs like a spoiled toddler who’d been denied a new toy.

It was over; he was thinking his last thoughts and feeling the terrifying sensations of his body entering its death throes. His useless life began to flash before his eyes: all the regrets, the stupid mistakes, the countless missed opportunities. He’d barely begun the depressing journey when, suddenly, his thrashing limbs began moving in a pattern familiar to all accomplished swimmers. He wanted to cackle wildly with joy and spit in the face of Death, but he couldn’t spare the time; he knew the end was still waiting for him at the bottom of this hellish body of water if he didn’t get a move on. Desperate for air, he propelled himself upward with a burst of inhuman strength, breaking the surface a few seconds later, more than ready to breathe in the heady aroma of life.

He gasped aloud, snapped his eyes open, and was surprised to see the ceiling of his penthouse bedroom. He struggled to pull in every molecule of oxygen into his starving lungs that he could, but the pressure from his dream was still sitting heavy on his chest. Meanwhile, his heart was trying to pound its way out of his ribcage, his face felt hot and sweaty, and his entire body was molten, like he was sharing his bed with a radiator. Nausea punched at the back of his throat; he forcibly swallowed down the acidic bile to keep from puking in his own bed. His limbs were tense, the muscles cramped and hard. His left hand was clenched in a painful fist, his nails denting his palm and threatening to break the skin. Then he realized his right hand was pinned beneath something heavy. _What??_

Fear pulled his gaze from the ceiling down to the bed and the lump beneath the covers that was currently attached to his side. A mass of brunette tangles stuck out of the top of it, almost close enough to tickle his cheek. _Anne._ Suddenly, the memories from the night before sliced through his brain. He’d specifically told her to sleep on the sofa in the living room! Despite his order, she was now in _his_ bed, latched onto him like a bloody fucking leech! _Cunt!!_ His body immediately recoiled, his symptoms spiking. He recognized the signs, even though it had been over a year since he’d experienced them: he was on the verge of having a full-fledged anxiety attack.

On instinct, he violently shoved her away. As he gasped for oxygen and fought to free himself from the tangled blankets, he heard a thump when she landed on the floor. Not that he gave a shit, because his body was only moments away from throwing one of its stupid biological tantrums. He finally found his feet, stumble-running to the en-suite as if it held the power to magically reset his short-circuited nervous system. He found a lifeline—the sink—and grabbed the edge of the granite countertop with both trembling hands. Screwing his eyes shut, he gave up trying to snatch a breath and just steeled himself for what was coming.  

“Michael!”

He heard his name, which sounded like it’d been spoken from the bottom of a mile-deep ravine. He focused on that voice to keep from thinking about how close he was to dying and wondering if there was anyone who would even care if he did.

“Michael, you need to control your breathing. You’re going to hyperventilate if you don’t.”

The words moved closer, muffled in soft cotton, their comforting breath warm against his skin. He loved how they felt, even if he couldn’t quite grasp their meaning.

“Do your breathing exercises. Slowly exhale, just a little. Hold it. Then try to breathe in again.”

Two words broke through the terror: breathing exercises. He reached out, pulling them to his aching chest in desperation, afraid they’d escape if he loosened his grip. More soft words flooded into his brain, but he ignored them, focusing instead on the two clutched in his hands. The words of the one decent therapist from his childhood pushed all the other ones aside: _“Before you can take a deep breath, you have to give one away.”_ Belly breathing, he’d called it. He could do that. He _had_ to if he wanted to live.

To anyone who was listening, his exhale would have sounded like a soft, disappointed sigh. Then he closed his mouth and breathed in slowly through his nose, pushing his stomach out just before the inhalation. He held it, allowing his neck muscles, shoulders, arms and hands to relax before slowly exhaling again, pulling his stomach in. He repeated the process enough times to where he could actually breathe again without gasping for air like a fish out of water. The panic was slowly receding, like gentle waves lapping against the shore.

Some unknown time later, he finally felt welcome inside his own skin again. Time snapped back and brought with it the sensations of reality. He had a small residual headache, a slight trembling in his extremities, and a bad case of jittery nerves. All things considered, this attack wasn’t as bad as it could have been, thanks to—

_Anne._

He sensed her standing beside him, staring at him, but he resisted looking her way, glancing into the mirror instead. He quickly looked down before she could latch onto his reflection. She was completely naked, her hand only a few inches away from touching his. He yanked it away, dropping it to his side against his bare leg. _Fuck._ He was naked and exposed too, trembling in front of his submissive like a leaf in the wind.

“Better now?” she asked softly.

He nodded, wishing she would just shut up and go away. He needed her sympathy like he needed another panic attack.  
  
“I’ll make us some coffee.”

_Fine. Whatever. Just get the hell out of my bathroom and my life._

He closed his eyes and forced out all the extraneous sounds around him. He knew from experience he had to focus on gaining control of himself, do something calming and pleasant to stave off the depression and shame that was waiting for him around the corner. A warm shower should help restore his equilibrium and hopefully give him the emotional and physical strength he needed to deal with Anne’s disobedience.

* * *

 

The soft burble of the coffeemaker should have been soothing, but it only reminded Anne of one of her co-worker’s dumb jokes: “I drink coffee so I can do stupid things faster and with more energy.”  She snorted in disgust. _Like I need coffee for that._

She snuggled deeper into Michael’s luxurious bathrobe and breathed in the unique scent of whatever it was that made the man smell so heavenly all the time. Outside the window, the sun was currently poking its golden nose just above the dark edge of the world, sending a deceptively warm glow into the kitchen. Sighing, she ignored the beautiful view and, instead, focused on how she was going to fix this mess.

Michael’s panic attack. Instinctively, she knew she’d triggered it, and she also knew his reaction to her witnessing it was _not_ going to be good. _Understatement of the millennium._ Admittedly, she didn’t know much about Michael’s everyday life outside the bedroom, but what she _did_ know with a certainty was that her dominant was a proud man who loathed weakness in anyone, including himself.

As she doctored up her coffee with a ton of creamer, she ran through a mental checklist of Michael’s symptoms. He definitely exhibited signs of PTSD from some sort of past trauma; the episode this morning could have been a re-experiencing event via a nightmare. What that trauma could be, she had no idea. Through the years she’d also noticed he was often hyper-vigilant of his surroundings and the people in them; his anger was, at times, on a dangerous hair trigger. She wondered if he’d ever been formally diagnosed or medicated.

She’d just settled back down at the bar with her cup when he strode into the kitchen, heading straight to the coffee pot without making eye contact, and he was definitely pissed. Despite the sudden tension in the room, she took a few precious moments to drink him in as he stood at the counter with his back to her. She doubted he even owned a pair of baggy sweatpants; his gray flannel pajamas were straight out of a fashion magazine, deliciously defining the firm contours of his thighs, ass, and shoulders without looking painted on. _Reign it in, girlfriend. Now is not the time._

“As soon as you finish your coffee, I want you to leave.” His voice was as chilly as the temperature outside. “Don’t call me. Don’t text me. I’ll contact _you_ when I need you.”

In the past, she would have abided by his wishes without objection, but those days were over. They had a contract now, a _relationship_ , whether he wanted to accept it or not.

“I’m not leaving until we talk about this.”

The cabinet door slammed shut a little harder than it should have, the mug hitting the marble counter with an alarming clunk. She watched in silence as he attempted to pour himself a cup of coffee, his trembling hand sending an errant splash of brown onto the countertop. She heard a soft curse and then his anger.

“You’re disobeying your dominant??!”

“Number 5 in our contract: ‘You will not try to control my life outside the bedroom.’” A dramatic pause. “We’re in your kitchen.”

He practically snarled his one-word response. “Cunt.”

Unlike most women, the C-word didn’t bother her. She’d long ago embraced her inner cunt/whore/bitch/slut/skank, and every other vile epithet a man could come up with to keep from admitting he was wrong. She was all those labels and more; she was proud of it, too.

With his back turned, her smirk was useless, but she did it anyway, _and_ she added a Dial-1-800-Porn tone to her voice for good measure. “Ooh, talk dirty to me, baby.”

That got his attention. He whipped around, ready to do battle with his jaw clenched and his eyes throwing blue knives in her direction.  Instead, his mouth dropped open in shock.

“That’s my bathrobe!”

 _Uh oh._ She’d unwittingly committed yet another misstep, apparently. “My clothes were scattered here and there, and it was handy. Plus, it’s soft and smells like you. It’s wonderful.” She felt a tiny bit chagrined, but then gave up feeling guilty and just snuggled a little deeper into the luxuriousness.

“It’s soft because it’s cashmere and costs $3,600,” he snapped. “Don’t try to take it with you. And put it back where you found it before you leave.”

He could call her a cunt all day long, but she was _not_ a thief! She was highly offended, and her voice communicated that. “Now you’re insulting me. I’ve been coming here for three years and I’ve never taken one thing from this penthouse that didn’t belong to me. You owe me an apology for even _insinuating_ I’d steal from you.”

He gave her his signature dead stare that she’d grown to love, _and hate_ , over the years: the one that meant he was wrong—and he was angry that he was wrong—but he’d be damned if he’d admit it, so he’d just pretend he didn’t know what the hell she was talking about and move on to another subject. But they were in a contractual relationship now and that shit was going to stop as of this moment. She crossed her arms across her chest and returned his dead stare with one of her own. Waiting. Waiting. This was about more than an overpriced bathrobe, of course. This was a defining moment that would ultimately determine whether she was going to be Michael’s equal in this quasi-relationship, or just his $1,500-Per-Event doormat.

Finally, he shrugged. “Sometimes people accidently get someone else’s things mixed up with theirs. That’s all I was implying.”

She’d known him long enough to know that was the closest thing to an “I’m sorry” she’d ever get. She smiled and nodded. “Apology accepted. Now, why don’t you bring your coffee over here and let’s talk.”

“I have nothing to say.”

Damn, the man was stubborn, but she understood. To someone like him, talking about his feelings was the same thing as tattooing a big V on his forehead—for VULNERABLE—making him a walking target for their hyper-masculine society to take aim at. It was nothing but the same old Alpha Male bullshit and she was so tired of that.

“But I do. So, maybe you could sit down and listen?” she asked gently. “No harm in listening, is there?”

He knew there was no logical rebuttal to that. With a barely detectable sigh, he grabbed his mug and settled down in the chair across from her. Now that their first official couple-argument was over and her anger was gone, she took a few moments to study him. He was avoiding her gaze, staring down into his coffee like he was trying to see his future in it. There was that sexy morning stubble she’d never seen on his jaw before—he was always immaculately clean shaven. His hair was still damp, his adorable cowlick sticking out. She resisted the urge to reach over and smooth it down, because there was something more important than his hair that needed smoothing this morning: his ego.

“I have a little girl in my class—she’s only eight years old—and she’s had two panic attacks in my classroom so far this year. She has a _medical_ condition, Michael, just like you do. It doesn’t mean she’s weak, nor is it something she should be ashamed of. Learning the coping strategies and taking her meds helps her feel more in control of her own body. She doesn’t want anyone’s sympathy, but she’s had to accept the fact that she needs our physical and emotional support sometimes.”  

He raked a hand through his hair and sighed. “I feel bad for her,” he said softly, still refusing to make eye contact. “I was thirteen when I had my first one. I can’t even imagine having to go through that at eight. You literally feel like you’re dying.”

She sipped her coffee in silence for a while, allowing him some quiet time to adjust to this new phase in their relationship. Meaningful conversation was not something they’d regularly engaged in through the years; there hadn’t been much time to exchange points of view on random topics while her date was tightening her restraints or placing a ball gag in her mouth. It was an adjustment for her, too. She tended to be talkative and blunt, but she also didn’t want to overwhelm him with too much closeness too quickly or he’d turn tail and run, regardless of their contract. She stifled a sigh. Tightrope walking was not her strength. When her coffee had turned lukewarm, she finally broke the silence.

“I’m sorry.”

He raised his head and smirked, finally meeting her gaze for the first time since he’d entered the room. “Go on. I’m listening.”

“I feel like waking up and finding me in your bed triggered your attack. If it did, I’m sorry. I woke up in the middle of the night feeling a bit chilly, and I thought of you in that warm bed all alone, and…”

She stopped. _Damn._ She was on the verge of going full out Hearts-Flowers-and-Sappy Mixtapes on him, so she decided not to mention the part about how nice he smelled, or how she wanted to tangle her legs in with his, or how his Happy Trail made her baby box turn flips.  
  
“It’s just that I haven’t actually _slept_ with a man,” she continued, “—you know, eyes closed and snoring—for a very long time. Sleeping beside you in your bed made me feel safe.”

He snorted arrogantly. “Safe? From who?? I have electronic locks. There’s discreetly armed security downstairs. You’re not in any danger here.”

 _Just like a man,_ she thought. They lived inside a bubble of safety that society constructed for them at birth. Men never pulled out their car keys as soon as they exited a store. Men never looked in the backseat of their car before getting in it. Men confidently went into public restrooms without a buddy. Men walking alone didn’t eye large groups of passing women with suspicion and/or fear. They just didn’t get it.

“Everyone likes to feel safe, Michael. It’s a basic human need. Being able to trust someone with your feelings _and_ your physical well-being is the basis of a strong relationship.”

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You sound like Daniel.”

She wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or a put-down. “What do you mean?”

He rolled his eyes. “He has an art therapy degree and he’s always throwing psychobabble nonsense into our conversations.”

She sat back and smiled. “Really? Daniel’s a Psych major? How interesting. I have a school counseling degree. I’m just not using it right now. I’d love to talk shop with him sometime.”

His mouth dropped open again. “You’re a psychologist? Why didn’t you disclose this during our negotiations??”

She shrugged, her expression innocent. “Uh…because you didn’t ask?? I figured the thorough background check you did on me would turn up everything you needed to know. You _did_ do a background check, right?”

He muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like “The world hates me.”  She decided to let it slide. If he’d failed to do a check on the person he planned on fake dating for one year, then fake marrying for two, that was his problem, not hers. On the other hand, the fact that he may _not_ have checked her out first could be a good sign, too. He already trusted her without verifying.

“So…did I trigger your attack?”

He was back to studying his coffee again in obstinate silence.

“We have an NDA between us,” she continued gently when it became obvious he wasn’t going to answer. “I’m one of the few people you can tell anything to and not worry about it getting out. Your hopes, your dreams, your nightmares, your insecurities, they’re all safe with me.”

The silence dragged on. She was sure he was weighing his options, determining whether he should trust her with his secrets. She hoped she came out on the winning side of that debate, because she’d invested three years of her life with this man. She deserved that much.

Finally, he raised his head and she could tell by the determined look in his eyes, and the way he steadily held her gaze, that he’d made the decision to trust her.

“I don’t like being touched without warning. I need time to emotionally prepare myself for intimate contact with people. I can shake hands, of course, and I can do it without melting into a puddle, but I don’t like it. Anything beyond that I try my best to avoid.” He nodded, affirming something in his thoughts. “So, yes, I think you triggered it.”

She couldn’t say she was surprised by his revelation. She’d noticed his aversion to intimate touching during their scenes together, and now that she knew he suffered from anxiety it all made sense. She was just happy he’d finally felt safe enough to openly share that discomfort with her. She apologized again, emphasizing that making him uncomfortable was never her intention. Surprisingly, despite his earlier anger, he graciously accepted her apology.  
  
“But that does present a little problem for us. If we’re going to fool everyone around us into thinking we’re a legitimate couple, we’re going to have to display some pretty convincing PDA.”

His lips thinned. Lips she’d never kissed in all the three years she’d known him, she might add. Lips she fully _intended_ to kiss before this was all said and done.

“We can just be one of those couples who don’t make out in public. They _do_ exist, Anne.”

Okay, fuck it. She was going to go full throttle Harlequin Romance on him this time. No guilt, no shame. “Have you ever watched two people together who’ve just fallen deeply in love? They’re constantly touching each other, even if it’s just a chaste hand to the arm or back. They exchange these intimate little looks that everyone around them knows is all about the fabulous sex they had the night before, and the fabulous sex they can’t wait to have again that night. They kiss, they exchange inside jokes no one else understands, they constantly make eye contact when they’re separated in a crowded room. It’s magical and romantic. That’s what we have to replicate if we’re going to be convincing.”

“Jesus Fucking Christ,” he whispered under his breath. It was odd; she’d never heard him use that phrase before. He shook his head. “I’m fucked. I’m destined to be a 0.99 percenter for the rest of my life.”

His over-the-top pity-party comment made her laugh out loud. His dry sense of humor appealed to her over-developed sarcasm gene. He rarely shared it with her, but it was one of his most attractive traits. That, along with his brilliant—and also rarely seen—smile.  
  
“Come on. Your bathrobe costs $3,600. You’re a long way from being financially destitute. My bathrobe was $14.99 at Wal-Mart and I’m doing okay.”

He made a face like someone had waved a dog turd under his nose. “That’s completely unacceptable. Michael Golland’s fake girlfriend will not wear a fifteen-dollar bathrobe in my presence. I’ll buy you a nicer one and keep it here for when you visit.”

She thought about reminding him that he wasn’t supposed to buy her anything except for their public events together, but she decided this wasn’t a battle she wanted to fight. He’d opened up to her for the first time; he’d actually apologized for something (in his own way, of course), and he was finally joking around with her now. Plus, there was the added bonus that he apparently planned on having her stay overnight again, hence her need for a nicer bathrobe. This contract/relationship thing just might end up working out after all.

“That’s very thoughtful. Thank you. And one last thing about your panic attack. I want you to know that my witnessing that in no way, shape, or form diminished you in my eyes. You’re still very much a strong, vibrant man whom I have the utmost respect for.”

Graciously accepting compliments wasn’t one of his many talents, but he managed to murmur a weak thank-you. “My fashion consultant would disagree with the vibrant part, though. She says I’m bland, that I’m blending in instead of standing out.”

She’d never in her life known anyone who employed an honest-to-goodness fashion consultant, but this was Michael Golland they were talking about. Of course he had one. While he prepared a small continental breakfast for them, he told her about Randee, an orange-haired, know-it-all graduate student, (he suspected she was a closet lesbian), who was majoring in fashion psychology, and who was now in charge of ensuring that he ‘stood out’ in a crowd.

“So, if I show up at one of our events in lime green striped slacks and an orange checked suit jacket, it won’t be because I’m a complete idiot, but because I’m trying to be fashionably vibrant.”

She laughed just imagining him in that outfit. But with that slim, sexy physique and sculpted face, he could pull off wearing tattered rags if he wanted to. Michael was one of the most physically stunning men she’d ever met, but she wasn’t going to tell him that, since he would most likely deny it. Alpha Male-type men generally rejected the idea of masculine beauty.

“Change of subject,” she said. “Before I forget, we need to discuss number 4 in our contract about being a better dominant. Last night was great—actually it was amazing; you outdid yourself—but I think it’s time we set up a safe word. Not that you hurt me or anything, because you didn’t, but it’s just part of doing this whole bondage thing correctly.”

He nodded, surprising her with his quick acquiescence; she’d expected at least a frown. “Okay,” he said, absent-mindedly rubbing the stubble on his jaw and scrambling her ovaries in the process. _Yummy._ “Have you picked one out already?”

“Yes, I have: elephant. They’re adorably cute and I love them.”

That smile she so rarely saw suddenly took over his face, turning him into a little boy who loved stomping mud puddles and rolling around in the dirt. He chuckled softly. “There’s a paradox buried somewhere deep in that statement. You realize that, right?”

She playfully glared at him. “No there isn’t, because I never fell off a fair _elephant_ or got happily trampled by oneeither _._  Ponies are different.”  

He snickered at her obviously flawed reasoning, but he’d never laid helplessly in the mud while an ill-mannered pony stomped on his legs. He agreed to the safe word, but warned her he’d probably laugh his ass off and get totally thrown out of the scene if she used it. Lucky for him, she doubted she’d ever have to say that word behind closed doors. Michael was already an excellent dominant who knew her limits better than anyone. She was just being safe…for _both_ of them.

With that taken care of, she could move on to another touchy subject. “So, you’re coming over to my house next weekend?”

A fleeting frown, so quick she almost didn’t catch it. “Sure. I’ll bring some of my homemade lobster salad for lunch.”

That sounded wonderful, and she told him so. What she didn’t tell him was that she was counting the minutes until Saturday. He’d never been in her personal space before; she’d always come to him. She wondered what he would think of her cluttered little abode, and also if Mr. Darcy would give Michael his purr of approval or stick up his tail in disdain and walk off. It could go either way.

“You’re not allergic to cats, are you?”

He grimaced. “No, but I don’t like them, and they don’t like me either, so it all balances out.”

 _Oh boy._ It was going to be an interesting Saturday…in more ways than one.

“There’s something else.” She hesitated, knowing it was probably too soon, but also knowing they had to get started or they’d never be able to pull off this charade. “You said you needed time to get ready before you engage in intimate contact with a person, so I thought we could start practicing our PDA stuff on Saturday. That gives you an entire week to prepare.”

The uneasiness in his eyes startled her. She’d expected annoyance, or even anger, but certainly not fear. She wanted to gather him up in her arms and tell him everything was going to be fine, but that was the one thing he _wouldn’t_ want her do. Instead, she stretched her arm out across the bar, offering him her hand.

“We can do this, Michael. We just have to practice.” 

She wiggled her fingers, inviting him to hold her hand. It took a few moments for him to resign himself to the fact that this was a necessary first step. He sighed, then gently entwined his long fingers in with her short ones and confidently clasped her hand. No nervous palm sweat. Just a warm, dry grip. He stared at their clasped hands like he was expecting them to explode into a fireball at any moment. When a few minutes of relatively relaxed silence passed without incident, she slowly slid her hand out of his.

Their gazes met. The educator in her was pleased to see that gleam of pride in his eyes at a job well done. It was that feeling of accomplishment that kept her in the classroom when she could make tons more money almost anywhere else.

But as a woman who was deeply in love with this man—and had been since the first time she’d met him—those few minutes of holding his hand had felt more intimate than all the sex they’d had in the past three years _combined._

She was happier than she’d been in a very long time. They’d formed a connection in the past twenty-four hours. It had spindly legs and was as wobbly as a newborn giraffe, but it was a start, a foundation they could definitely build upon _if_ she was patient and persistent.

Lucky for her, those were her two strongest personality traits.


	33. Without Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has some squicky content in it, but I put all that in the content warning at the beginning of the story AND in the story's tags, so no apologies. lol 
> 
> It would warm my heart to get a few comments. They make me happy. :D

As if it being Monday wasn’t bad enough, it was also raining—no uplifting sunrise to set the tone for his day—and he’d been informed via text message that his father wanted to meet with him, in _his_ office, before the official work day started.  He’d refused to elaborate on the topic of the meeting; Michael’s gut instinct told him his Monday was about to go to shit.  Dear Ole’ Dad only called his disappointing son into his office for one of two reasons: to deliver a humiliating ass-reaming for some miniscule mistake he’d made, or to assign him an unpleasant task which required the employment of questionable ethics to complete it. His father had an aversion to dirtying his own hands.

He sighed, turned his back on the fog-obscured cityscape outside his office windows, and took his coffee to the armchair grouping where he and Daniel ate lunch together every day. With intentional disregard for the outrageous cost of the furniture, he plonked his feet down onto the coffee table and stretched out, trying to ease the tension in his neck and shoulders. He was already in a foul mood without his father adding to it, and all because of Anne.

He now knew his mistake had been asking her to stay overnight. Everything would have been fine if he’d just told her to go home after they’d left the barn. But he’d let his appetites overpower his reason… _again_ …and now everything had suddenly gotten complicated. She’d seen him at his weakest, which was humiliating. And, despite what she’d said, he felt as if his dominant position over her had been substantially undermined by the episode. Her refusal to leave, and touching his things without permission, had infuriated him. Anne was not going to be as easy to control as he’d thought. He’d mistakenly assumed her compliance in the bedroom would translate to compliance everywhere else. She was proving to be annoyingly headstrong and disturbingly able to see into the darkest parts of him.

That she was a counselor was something he still could not wrap his head around. There was no excuse for his missing that vital piece of information during the background check. He’d focused on her finances—debt load to salary ratio, credit score, bankruptcies, and defaulted loans—to eliminate her as a potential gold-digger. Now, because of his own stupid carelessness, he was stuck with yet another person in his life who was going to analyze every single thing he did 24/7. She could also forget about meeting Daniel. That was _never_ going to happen.

And the whole touching thing…  
  
Somehow, he’d managed to hold her hand without triggering another embarrassing meltdown, but the thought of kissing her or exchanging sexy looks in public turned his stomach. _Eight figures, remember?_ He had to keep reminding himself of the stakes in this farce. This was to secure his future so he could build a comfortable life completely free of his father’s oppressive and suffocating influence _._ Still, he was dreading Saturday worse than he’d dreaded anything in his recent memory.

A glance at his watch told him he had five minutes to get to the Executive Suite for his meeting. It was at times like this he wished he believed in a nebulous higher power who could intervene on his behalf and do something about his father.  But, apparently God hadn’t had the time, or inclination, to stop the countless genocides throughout history, so the chances of him intervening over one particular abusive and manipulative sperm donor were less than zero. Once again, he was on his own.

 

* * *

 

Most executive suites were spacious and inviting with comfortable seating, interesting artwork, and subdued lighting to make guests and employees feel at ease. Not at GEM. His father’s claustrophobic wood-paneled office was just a smaller replica of Throne Room #1 back at the mansion. There were two leather Inquisitional Chairs in the corporate version, which somehow translated to double the emotional scars his father was able to inflict upon him. Michael pulled one of the wing backs closer to his father’s desk and sat down, wondering what he’d fucked up _this_ time. There were no pleasantries, as usual; his father got right down to business.

“We believe Daniel Hart may have left his previous job under questionable circumstances. He claimed in his interview it was a pay issue. Howard didn’t buy that. There’s two question marks in parentheses beside that answer.”  With a smug expression, his father pushed the paper transcript of the interview across the desk for Michael to see. “It seems Daniel might not have been completely honest with us. I want you to find out the _real_ reason he left his last employer, some shrink place called Without Words. I want to know if it’s something we can use to fire him.”

Michael wanted to slap the smug off his father’s face, but had to settle for a less violent approach. To point out that Daniel was now his friend—his _only_ friend—would be a total waste of time. Relationships didn’t matter if they were standing in the way of something his father wanted. Perhaps appealing to the shrewd businessman in him would work.

“Daniel’s extremely talented, a team player, and he often takes on a leadership role on major projects. He hardly ever misses work, and when he does he has doctors’ excuses. I don’t think it would be a wise decision to fire him.”

His father laughed out loud. “You wouldn’t recognize a wise decision if it slapped you in the face. I was making the decisions for this company long before you were born, and because of that, GEM’s earnings growth regularly exceeds market averages.”

Jesus. He was going to have to sit through yet another pat-on-the back speech??

“Our ROE consistently meets or exceeds market expectations and has kept our shareholders quite happy. Plus, our stock values have been holding steady, or making gains, for decades.”

 _Except during the last recession_. But Michael knew better than to open that old wound. Dear Ole’ Dad also had an aversion to acknowledging his own mistakes. At the time, he’d tried to warn his father that the market was bloated and to sell off some of his personal portfolio, as well as divest a couple of GEM’s non-core businesses, but he’d been ignored. His father had lost a ton of money all because he’d been too stupid—or proud—to take advice from his own son.

At the conclusion of his ego-stroking speech, he leaned forward, giving Michael his I-Mean-Business glare. “Daniel’s a plant, a spy for daddy—you and I both know that. I want him off my payroll. Your job is to get to the bottom of this, and get something on him that is solid enough to withstand the scrutiny of an attorney. If you can’t handle that, I’ll find someone else who can.”

Michael’s temper seethed at his father’s blatant manipulation. Howard should have been the one investigating this, since he’d personally conducted the interview, and was the one expressing doubts about Daniel’s honesty. But, Howard wasn’t sitting in this chair right now because Michael knew the _real_ reason he’d been asked to look into this matter. It wasn’t to protect GEM from a spy. It was to undermine his friendship with Daniel, like he’d undermined _all_ of Michael’s friendships since he’d hit puberty.

“No need to give it to anyone else.” He stood, ready to leave and fighting the overwhelming urge to punch his fist through his father’s wood-paneled walls. “I’ll handle it.”

His father’s smug smile followed him out of the room. In the elevator he called Trudy. “I need you to push my nine o’clock to ten-thirty. Then tell Daniel to meet me in the rooftop solarium ASAP.”

 

* * *

 

The solarium was deserted because of the rain, but also because it was the beginning of the work day. The coffee pots in the staff lounges were the most popular attractions in the building this time of the morning. While waiting for Daniel to arrive, Michael considered the best way to physically handle their “interview”. Should they sit comfortably on the peach colored sofa together like two friends just having a harmless conversation? No, that would be awkward. He’d have to twist himself into a pretzel to make eye contact, and that was going to be the most important part of their conversation. Regardless of their friendship status, he needed to establish right away that this was a professional discussion and _he_ held the dominant position. Psychology 101. He knew Daniel would understand those psychological cues as soon as he walked through the solarium doors.

So, he settled into one of the hard chairs surrounding a table that looked like it had come out of some grandmother’s country kitchen. It wasn’t optimal positioning for a situation like this, but at least there would be four feet of polished hardwood between them. He’d learned from seven years of intimidating weak-kneed job applicants during their interviews that height dominance was the best way to assert authority over another person. But if that wasn’t an option, distance worked well, too.

Moments later, Daniel strode into the solarium, hands in his khaki pockets and trying to look casual. _He’s nervous._ He was wearing one of those winter sweaters again with his shirt tail hanging out of the bottom of it. Normally, Michael would have ribbed him about it, but not today. He gestured to the chair opposite him; Daniel slid into it without protest.

Small talk wasn’t his skill, but Michael wasn’t ready to start his interrogation just yet. “Sorry for interrupting your workday.”

“No problem,” Daniel answered lightly.

Ignoring the curiosity in Daniel’s expression, he asked about his weekend, and how the night at the Staple’s Center had gone. He smiled, but Michael noticed it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“It was great. Everybody had a really good time even though the Lakers were having an off night. Their game was trash.” He chuckled. “Had a little bit too much to drink, though. I ending up leaving at half time. Hung out with some friends the rest of the night. But it was really nice. Thanks again.”

“You’re welcome.” Michael had a feeling that wasn’t the whole story, but now wasn’t the time to get into it.

“How was _your_ Saturday…with Anne?” he asked.

Now wasn’t the time to go into that stupid shit either, but he had to hold up his end of this small talk nonsense, since he was the one who’d started it. He shrugged. “I survived it…obviously. She’s a rather odd person, not someone I’d normally be interested in because we have almost nothing in common, but it turned out okay, I suppose.”

Daniel raised an eyebrow, like he knew that wasn’t the whole story either, but also knowing this wasn’t the time for an off-the-cuff counseling session.

Daniel sighed. “Let’s cut the bullshit. Am I in trouble?”

 _I sincerely hope not._ He turned his full attention to Daniel’s face, specifically his eyes. “I need to ask you something important, and I need you to be _completely_ honest with me when you answer.”

Suddenly all the curiosity disappeared from Daniel’s face; his expression was wiped clean. Impassive. Waiting.

“Your last employer before being hired at GEM was a counseling center called Without Words, correct?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“Why did you leave their employ?”

He took note that Daniel’s body had gone completely still. No nervous ticks or swallowing. He met Michael’s gaze and held it. “It was a pay issue. I love counseling but the salary is garbage. I was making my bills, but there was hardly anything left over to play with. I went over all this already in my interview with that old guy.”

Michael recalled his own impromptu interview with Daniel the morning after the Christmas party. When asked if he knew the identity of Joystyk, Daniel had exhibited the same body rigidity, the same lack of nervous tics, the same rock solid eye contact. Most people looked away, or down, when telling a lie. Daniel wasn’t most people. He had lied back then, and he was currently lying straight to Michael’s face.

Swallowing down a frustrated sigh, he decided the dominant position was getting him nowhere fast. He got up, moved one of the wooden chairs closer to Daniel, then settled into it. Their knees were a couple of inches from touching, which violated every single power dominance rule known to man, but fuck it. This was important. He needed Daniel to open up to him.

“You’re lying to me,” he said softly. Daniel looked like he was going to object, but he pressed on before he could offer some ridiculous nonsense in his defense. Michael lowered his voice even though the solarium was empty. “Listen to me, Daniel. There are people in this company who want you gone because of your father. I’m _not_ one of those people. I’ll admit, I was at first, but I’m actually relieved you’re still here, because a lot of pressure is off me to do… _certain things_ …now. Do you follow me?”

Daniel nodded, his eyes suspiciously narrowed.

“You’re talented, and a valuable asset to this company. But in order for me to help you keep your job, I have to know the truth.” He drilled his gaze into Daniel’s eyes, wishing he had some magical superpower that would convince his friend to trust him. “I need you to tell me the real reason you left Without Words so I’ll know what I’m facing _before_ I start investigating this.”

Daniel stubborn gaze never wavered. “It was a pay issue.”

Michael gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to wrap both hands around Daniel’s neck and squeeze. The guy had no clue who he was dealing with. Paul Golland would never give up until he saw Daniel’s ass in the unemployment line.

“I’ve told you things I’ve never told anyone else. I could have had you fired over the Joystyk thing, but I didn’t. Instead, I hired you to commit a crime for me, for fuck’s sake! If I tell on you, I tell on myself, and vice versa.” He chuckled softy. “We’re partners in misdemeanor crime now, but we’re also friends. You can trust me, Daniel.”

The moment he broke eye contact, Michael knew he’d won him over. He lowered his gaze, starting his story in a voice so low that Michael had to lean closer to hear him.

“I was given a choice: leave voluntarily or be fired. I committed a boundary violation—a stupid rookie mistake.”

Michael knew very little about psychotherapy except that he’d loathed every single moment he’d been subjected to it throughout his life. He knew there were rules governing the relationships between therapists and patients, but knew nothing beyond that. A boundary violation, according to Daniel, was when the patient/therapist relationship violated the traditional, strict, ‘only in the office’, emotionally distant forms of therapy. Boundary violations could seriously harm the patient, hence the harsh reprisals when it happened.

“My patient was very good at manipulating people. Before I figured out what he was doing, things had started to get out of hand.”

His male patient had become emotionally attached to Daniel, enamored with him, often flirting with him during sessions. Daniel had gently, but firmly, shut him down, reminding him that therapists and patients were not allowed to have that type of relationship, either inside or outside the therapeutic setting. He’d also reported the conversation to his boss, and sought support on how to handle the situation from that point forward.

“Things returned to normal during our sessions, so I thought his infatuation with me was over. But then, one Saturday I was at the mall eating lunch at the food court, and suddenly he just sits right down at my table without even asking, like he belonged there. In retrospect, I should have told him to leave, but he was just talking about normal, everyday stuff. No flirting or anything inappropriate.”

They’d talked for nearly two hours and Daniel swore that never once did he feel their conversation crossed a line. If it had, he would have immediately gotten up and left. They discussed hobbies, the weather, politics, whether the newest restaurant on La Cienega Boulevard was worth trying, just normal topics two casual friends might talk about over lunch.

“Apparently someone from work saw us and reported it to my boss. He called me into his office first thing Monday morning demanding an explanation and full disclosure of the content of our conversation.”

He’d told his supervisor everything but, ultimately, his honesty hadn’t saved his job. His boss had been right in pointing out that Daniel should have immediately terminated the meeting at the mall, especially given the patient’s particular mental health issues.

“He was actually doing me a favor, as a friend, by giving me the option to quit. I’m grateful for that, because I was still able to use Without Words as a reference.”

“Is there a paper trail?”

Daniel frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Were you formally written up? Did you sign anything admitting you’d committed an ethics violation? Did you have a termination agreement?”

Daniel shook his head. “No, nothing. My boss was also a good friend, so because of that friendship, none of this ever made it to paper.”

For the first time since he’d left his father’s office, Michael felt optimistic. He let out an audible sigh of relief and no longer felt the need to plow his fist through a wall. This wasn’t as bad as it could have been—just a simple ethics violation in which no one had gotten hurt. His own father had done much worse than what Daniel had just described. He’d have to do a little legal research, and also speak to Daniel’s supervisor at Without Words, but barring anything unforeseen, he just couldn’t see how any of this could get Daniel fired. But just to be sure, and since bribery was an acceptable problem-solving method in his father’s world…

“If someone offered your former boss a substantial… _donation_ …in exchange for more information, would he throw you under the bus?”

Daniel’s eyes widened, his jaw dropped. “You mean bribery?”

He nodded.

“No. He’s as honest as they come. That’s why he forced me to quit to begin with, instead of covering for me, which he could have easily done. He may be my friend, but he wouldn’t break the law for me or put patients at risk.” Daniel leaned forward, his gaze intense. “What I did was wrong, Michael. He did the right thing by forcing me out.”

In light of everything they’d discussed, he suddenly had a disturbing thought. “Are you committing a boundary violation with _me_?”

Daniel sat back, ran a hand through his cropped hair and sighed. “Technically, no. It’s not an explicit violation of the APA ethics code, but it does constitute a ‘multiple relationship’—that’s when you bring your role as a therapist into your personal life. They caution us against it because it can create problems, but it’s not something that could cause me to lose my license.”

He was relieved to hear that, because he’d swore long ago he’d never be subjected to psychological testing/therapy ever again. Talking to Daniel, as hard as it had been the first time, was much easier than spilling his guts to a stranger, especially one that his father had handpicked.

Michael stood and rested his hand on Daniel’s shoulder. “I just don’t see a connection between what happened at Without Words and your job performance here at GEM. Everything’s going to be fine, Daniel. I’ll take care of this. Don’t worry.” 

 

* * *

 

He managed to make it to the restroom on his floor before he fell apart. Slamming the stall door behind him, he leaned his forehead against the tile, palms flat against the wall, and fought to get himself under control. He was trembling all over, seconds away from crying, and nausea threatened to empty his morning coffee all over his Converse. A panic attack was hovering just around the sharp edges of his emotions, waiting in the shadows to strike. He focused on his breathing and methodically worked through each step of the 5-4-3-2-1 Intervention until he felt a little bit less like he was going to die. His hands still shook, but he thought his legs might now be able to get him to the sink so he could splash some cold water on his face.

A coworker came in and caught him holding onto the porcelain basin for dear life, water mixed with tears still dripping from his face.

“Daniel, are you okay?”

He managed to croak out an acceptable explanation. “I’m sick. I just need a few minutes. Let everyone know, okay?”

“Sure thing.”

A few minutes later, after the flush, he was alone again. He raised his head and stared at his own reflection. Michael deserved a much better friend than the lying piece of shit in the mirror. Every single thing he’d just told Michael was the truth, _except_ he’d left out one very important detail.

 _Boundary violation._ He snorted aloud at the ridiculous simplicity of that phrase. To a layman, it sounded like someone had just purposely stepped over a neighbor’s fence and trespassed on their property. In actuality, what he’d done at Without Words was the most unconscionable thing a therapist could ever do with a patient. He deserved to lose his license permanently for what had happened that day. But he hadn’t because he’d also lied to his boss—his _friend_.

What really happened was before their conversation ended at the food court, his patient—Connor—suggested they meet up at another location for a more… _private_ …talk. He knew it was wrong, but he wanted it, wanted _him,_ so he ignored that voice that told him he was about to commit a major fuck-up that could cost him his job.

They met at a public park in a remote area deep in the heart of its empty campground where they were sure not to be interrupted. The boundary violation took place in a dirty wooden stall inside an ancient cinderblock restroom.

It was there he had sex with his patient, but not the kind of sex written about in sweet romance novels.

It was the kind of sex that started with an argument over who was going to bottom. A fist to his face settled that argument, _and_ bloodied his nose.

It was the kind of sex that continued with his face slammed up against the dirty wooden wall of the stall, and his pants and underwear ripped down around his ankles.

It was the kind of sex that made him yell out in pain when he realized there was a nail right where his eyebrow was. More blood poured down his face from the gash.

It was the kind of sex that earned him a hard jab to the kidney when he didn’t spread his legs wide enough.

It was the kind of sex that required a bungee cord wrapped tight around his wrists to keep him from fighting.

It was the kind of sex where no one cared whether there were condoms or lubrication. But, thankfully, there were.

It was the kind of sex that left bruises and scratches anywhere fists and fingernails could reach.

It was the kind of deep, brutal, pounding sex that left a needle-thin trail of blood on his inner thigh afterward.

It was the kind of mind-blowing sex he loved. He came harder than he had in a very long time.

Connor had laughed when it was over. _“Life is damned good when your therapist is a bigger sexual deviant than you are.”_

Daniel had laughed with him, because it was the truth.

He’d gone straight to the emergency room, claiming he’d been jumped by a group of straight guys who hated gay men. Nose hadn’t been broken, but he’d needed stitches above his eye where the nail had poked him. He’d taken care of the bottom part himself, at home. He’d healed just fine because, no matter how tough he’d thought he was, Connor was just a lightweight rapist at best.

He shook off the memories and returned to the present, drying his face with a scratchy paper towel and cursing the boner punching against his khakis. He returned to the stall, locked the door, and sat down on the toilet with his pants on, waiting for his hard-on to subside. When it was mostly gone, he exited the stall, straightened his clothes, and checked his reflection one last time in the mirror to make sure he was presentable. Everything was going to be fine, just like Michael had said.  

He pushed through the door to return to work, hoping that was true, but knowing in his heart it wasn’t. Nothing was fine in his life and it was never _going_ to be.


	34. Anne's House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The charity event mentioned in this story is a real event, however I have taken an author's liberty by setting it at a different time of the year than it really is.

_You’ve got to be kidding me._ He sat in his Jeep, staring through the windshield at a square brick box that didn’t look much bigger than his pool house. Wooden front door that tried, but failed, to look expensive. Green indoor/outdoor carpet. Porch furniture straight out of the 1950s. This wasn’t the worst neighborhood in Los Angeles, but it wasn’t Park Place by a long shot. His fake girlfriend was dangerously close to being white trash.

He was _not_ in the mood for this today.

_Eight figures, remember._

Sighing, he grabbed the containers that held their lunch and exited the Jeep, making his way to the front door with as much dignity as possible. Only twenty or so feet of grass separated the small houses. Kitchen curtains were probably being delicately parted at that very moment—gray-haired retirees gathering fodder for their neighborhood rumor mill.

The front door swung open before he could poke the doorbell. They’d agreed on a casual, blue jean/t-shirt Saturday, but she was taking the casual thing a bit too far. The first thing he noticed—besides her attractive, loose-flowing hair—was that her t-shirt had a million tiny holes in it, but that it was purposely manufactured that way. Who would pay good money for a shirt full of holes?? He had to force himself to raise his gaze and focus on the meaningless pleasantries that were required of him (and that he sucked so badly at), realizing too late that she probably thought he’d been staring at her tits. She flashed him a mischievous smile that instantly made him uncomfortable. He’d seen that same predatory look on the faces of countless whores who regularly hit on him at social events.  
  
“Wow. I’ve never seen you in jeans before.” Her gaze traveled leisurely down his frame, reminding him of the way Daniel inspected his body every single time they were together. But at least Daniel did it tactfully. Anne wasn’t even trying to hide the fact that she was staring. “That’s a look I could _definitely_ get used to.”

He never knew how to respond when people complimented him. He managed a weakly muttered ‘thanks’ and stepped inside. She took the food containers from his hands, instructing him to wait at the door while she put them away in the kitchen. He was completely fine with being ordered around at the moment, because he had no intention of moving any deeper into the clutter that lay before him, at least not without a guide. He stared, unable to believe his eyes. Apparently, Anne’s decorating style was Middle Class Hoarder Kitsch. Daniel’s messy home was minimalist and neat in comparison.

He was used to high ceilings, open spaces, and an Everything-In-Its-Place style of décor, so to take his mind off the flutters of claustrophobic panic tickling his spine, he focused on what lay immediately in front of him. Her foyer was a ridiculously small two-foot square of surprisingly beautiful hardwood. Facing him was a foot-wide wall, and hanging on that wall was a single framed image of a mountain and sunset with an inspirational quote: _Depressed people live in the past. Anxious people live in the future. Productive people live in the present._

Damn. It had been a long time since he’d come across words so utterly relevant, as if someone had written them just for him.

Suddenly she was standing by his side again and speaking. “Nobody really knows who said that. Some claim it’s a modernized version of a Lao Tzu quote, but that’s been debunked.” He silently read it again, still amazed he’d never heard it before. “But I don’t really care who said it. I hung it there so I could read it every single day.” She looked up at him and smiled. “It’s my favorite quote of all time, my life motto.”

She was waiting for him to say something, but he couldn’t even begin to put his reaction into a meaningful sentence, at least not until he’d had a little quiet time to think about those words. “Profound,” he whispered.

Anne offered him her hand. _Ugh. The PDA thing already??_

Then like the spark of a match in a dark cave, a childhood memory suddenly flashed into his mind of the one time he’d actually held hands with a girl. He must have been nine or ten-years-old. They were at some group picnic or something. He couldn’t remember the details, just that their palms had been clasped together nearly the entire day—running alongside each other in the hot summer sun, skipping, laughing, playing tag. Back then, touching her skin had felt as normal to him as breathing. Back then, when she’d wrapped her arms around his neck in a tight hug, he’d grinned and hugged her back just as tightly, telling her he’d had more fun that day than he’d had in a long time. Back then, he’d looked forward to seeing her again, holding her hand, playing together. Now, he couldn’t even remember her name, but he still remembered what it had felt like to not be broken. It had taken him many years to come to the realization that the sledgehammer used to pulverize him into so many dysfunctional pieces had been happily wielded by his father, Deidra, and the church.

_Productive people live in the present._

Glancing again at the inspirational quote, he silently thanked whoever had penned it. Pushing the unexpected childhood memory back to where it had hidden for so many years, he accepted Anne’s hand. She smiled, then threaded her fingers in with his in the way couples in love do.

“Let me show you around.”

A few moments later, his intimate contact issues faded to the background, forgotten. As she guided him through her claustrophobic house by the hand, he was rendered speechless for the first time in a very long while. There weren’t enough knives in his insult drawer to even _begin_ to cut through this woman’s total lack of decorating style.

They literally had to maneuver along a narrow path through the living room. A two-inch deviation to the right or left from the designated route had him bumping his knee into a bench piled with pillows, or perilously rocking a lamp on a small table with his ass. There were so many objects in the room that his conscious mind couldn’t absorb it all. It was like an overwhelming 3D version of Where’s Waldo. After about five apologies for nearly sending some random piece of décor crashing to the floor, they finally made it to the dining room.

She chuckled softly. “I don’t use the dining room for dining.”

 _Obviously._ The only way he could identify the largest structure in the room as a table was that it had four wooden legs hiding beneath the mountain of clutter on its surface. The dining part of the table was nothing but stacks of books and file folders filled to bursting.

“This is kind of like my home office,” she offered, without looking even the least bit embarrassed. “That’s all my teaching stuff.”

She led him through an arched doorway into the kitchen. He now understood why she didn’t cook. Her appliances were vintage 1970s antiques. Only a few small cabinets clung to the walls and obviously didn’t hold much, since the roughly two feet of available counter space was covered with what looked like the entirety of her last grocery visit. He briefly wondered where they would be eating lunch. On the floor??

“And this is my Lakers shrine,” she said as they approached another doorway that led out of the kitchen and even deeper into the labyrinth. Purple and yellow banners, hats, bandanas, stickers, action figures—so much Lakers gear that he couldn’t even take it all in. His What-A-Waste-of-Decorating-Space look must have shown on his face because she laughed out loud.

“You’re not a Laker’s fan??”

He shook his head. He hated all sports.

“How can you live in L.A. and not be a Lakers fan?”

He shrugged. It would take too long to explain that his father had pushed him into sports, despite his total lack of interest, in a misguided attempt to mold him into some stereotype of what a boy should be. Or to explain about the ridicule heaped upon his head when he’d failed to perform to his father’s standards. Or about his feelings of inadequacy from knowing his athletic skill would never exceed that of even the _worst_ player on the team.

“Daniel’s a big fan, though.” Instantly, he berated himself for bringing Daniel into their conversation. He’d hoped this day with Anne would take his mind off Daniel for at least a few hours.

Her eyes brightened with curiosity. “Really? There’s another reason I need to meet that guy.”

 _Over my dead body._ As far as Daniel knew, Anne was just someone he was paying to be with him so he could get his greedy fingers on his trust fund—someone he had no emotional or physical attachment to—and he intended for it to stay that way.

A short hallway led out of the kitchen and past a bathroom that barely had enough room to turn around in. His small walk-in closet at the cottage had more floor space. 

“And this is my bedroom,” she said as they quickly moved past the bathroom to the next open doorway.

Again, every flat surface in the room (except for the bed) provided a home for random piles of female stuff: stacks of folded clothes, books, cosmetics, framed pictures all over the walls, and even more of the useless gewgaws that filled her living room. As far as he could tell, there wasn’t even a real closet, just one of those monstrous wooden wardrobes he’d seen at antique auctions.

Suddenly, a flash of black and white blurred past in his peripheral vision and wrapped itself around his ankles before darting around the corner and disappearing. He instinctively stepped back and he _might_ have blurted out an unmanly squawk.

“What was that??”

A bright smile that instantly made him suspicious. “That was Mr. Darcy, my cat.”

He grimaced. “I hate cats and they hate me.”

A chuckle. “Yeah, you’ve already mentioned that. But I promise you, he’s harmless.”

She guided him around a corner and suddenly he realized that the rooms in her house were laid out in one big circle around a single inner stabilizing wall. _Someone should find the architect who designed this white trash disaster and shoot him in the head._

“Mr. Darcy is kind of like Claire,” she continued as they passed the inspirational quote at the front door and arrived back in the living room where they’d started.  “If Darcy approves of you, then it’s all smooth sailing from here.”

She winked and he could almost feel his bank accounts dwindling. Apparently, cats were born with an instinctive hatred of him sewn into their DNA, since every single one he’d come into contact with throughout his life had tried to scratch him to death within the first few minutes.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m dying to dig into that lobster salad of yours.”

He nodded his silent agreement, eager to just hasten this day along so he could retreat back into his pristine clean, cat-free cottage and read a book. She unwound her fingers from his, which surprised him because, somehow, he’d completely forgotten they’d been holding hands as they’d toured her house.

His question about where they’d eat lunch was finally answered when she cleared off a small coffee table in front of the living room sofa. He sank down into the sofa’s plush cushions, and it was actually comfortable. Moments later the lunch he’d prepared for them was spread out on a white lace doily that, he had to admit, was beautifully crafted. He gently touched the delicate stitches, remembering back to the rainy days of his pre-teen years when his mother would crochet or knit while he curled up in an armchair to read.

“My grandmother made that,” she said.

He forced himself to look away before the memories sent him reeling back into a past that couldn’t be changed. “My mother used to make those, too.”

They ate in silence, with Anne occasionally inserting a gushing compliment about his ‘fuck-hot sexy’ culinary skills into the stillness. Meanwhile, Mr. Darcy perched himself on the one flat surface that didn’t have something sitting on it and just stared.

“Your cat’s creepy.”

She barked a laugh. “He’s just being cautious, trying to make up his mind whether you’re acceptable or not.”

“So, what you’re saying is that he’s a pretentious little prick just like his literary namesake.”

Her eyes widened. “You’ve read _Pride and Prejudice_??”

“Unfortunately.”

She smiled. “Then you know that Mr. Darcy eventually redeems himself in the end. He’s not such a bad guy after all.”

He shrugged. “I never made it that far. I quit halfway through it because love stories are massively stupid.”

He felt her stare and turned to meet her gaze, which was suddenly devoid of any mischievous twinkles. When she spoke, her voice was hushed and serious. “Love is the only thing that makes this life worth living, Michael.”

He shouldn’t have been surprised to discover that his fake girlfriend was just another dumb and deluded, Hearts-in-Her-Eyes bimbo, but he was. He’d expected Anne’s outlook on life and love to be as free from society’s ridiculous expectations as her attitudes about sex were. _Disappointing._

“Love is bullshit, Anne,” he sneered, trying—but not sure he was succeeding—to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “I don’t even believe in love. People just hook up because they want something from somebody else: their money, position, power, sex, companionship, whatever. It’s all just selfish, superficial nonsense that people use to delude themselves into thinking they’re happy.”

While Anne stared at him with a mildly shocked expression, Mr. Darcy leapt from his lofty pedestal onto his lap—a black-and-white furball now ensconced squarely on his crotch and proceeding to give itself a bath. He didn’t even want to think about how long it was going to take to remove the mountains of cat hair from his designer jeans.

She snorted and light-hearted Anne was back. “It usually takes Darcy several hours—sometimes _days_ even—to feel comfortable enough to groom himself on a stranger’s package. Congratulations! You passed with flying colors!”

 _Yippee._ But if the little prick started in with the scratching, he was going to toss its bony ass up into the top branches of that fake tree in the corner, the one looming ominously over the room and making him feel like he was deep in the heart of the Amazon rainforest. There was no way she was going to bring that molded-plastic monstrosity into their future fake-married house.

Her mischievous gleam was back. “So, what do you think of my humble little home?”

He thought about spouting some meaningless drivel in an effort to be polite, but fuck that. He’d always sucked at the niceties, so why start now?

“You’re a hoarder, and hoarding is a serious mental health issue,” he stated, armed with factual information from a self-help book he’d just finished reading last week. In case she got defensive. . .

She chuckled. “I knew you’d say that, but I’m definitely not a hoarder, I promise.”

The next few minutes passed with him listening with only half an ear to the story of how she came to live in this cluttered little house (The other side of his brain was busy keeping a cautious eye on Mr. Darcy’s claws and their close proximity to his genitals). When she graduated from college, she applied for a high-paying teaching job at an exclusive private school in San Francisco, and surprisingly got it. She only made it through one semester before realizing that educating sheltered rich kids was not how she wanted to spend her teaching career. She also deeply missed her mother, who still lived here in Los Angeles. He could relate. She started applying for jobs in Los Angeles County, and was surprised when she was offered a position starting at the beginning of the next semester. It was close to her old home, and her mother, so she immediately accepted.

“The kicker was I had to start right after Christmas vacation ended. I had to pack all my stuff, find a place to live, unpack all my stuff, and move into a new classroom prepared to teach in just three weeks. It was crazy!” She chuckled. “This was the best I could find on such short notice. It’s cheap and, yes, I realize it’s way too small to hold all the things I accumulated in my townhouse in San Francisco, but I just don’t have time to house hunt right now.”

He was strangely relieved. She was afraid of horses, couldn’t swim or cook, regularly consumed fast food, and erroneously thought cats were capable of being loyal pets. But on the other hand, she loved books, was an excellent submissive, didn’t seem interested in his wealth or position, and wasn’t a mentally ill hoarder. He could definitely work with that.

She cleaned up their lunch while Darcy blissfully slept on his crotch. When she returned, she swept the doily off the table, folded it nicely and sat it somewhere nearby. He wasn’t really paying much attention as Darcy was suddenly awake, the cat’s green stare drilling a hole into his forehead. _Still creepy._ She settled onto the sofa beside him and an uncomfortable silence settled in with her. _Now what?_ He wracked his brain for some fragment of small talk he could use to get rid of the awkwardness. His gaze settled on a group of framed pictures nestled closely together on a small, decorative table.

He nodded his head in that direction. “Who’s that with you in those pictures?”

Her brown eyes softened. He sensed a Mushy Female Moment coming on. “That’s my mom, my best friend. We do everything together.”

“And your father?” he asked after noticing there wasn’t a corresponding male in any of the pictures.

She snorted. “My dad was a waste of human organs, unfortunately. He’s been out of the picture for a very long time. He’s a toxic person, so I don’t interact with him at all.”

He could definitely relate, because the most toxic people he knew were in his own family: his father, of course, but he couldn’t discount his older brother, either. Paul Junior was just like his namesake, and had happily tormented Michael throughout his entire childhood.

_Depressed people live in the past._

He forced his estranged brother out of his thoughts and focused on Anne. She was asking about his mother— _his_ best friend—which led to a conversation about how each of them, as children, had found solace in the quiet and lazy afternoons spent with their loving moms.

“How did your mother die?” she asked gently.

He’d rather talk about anything else, but he was going to have to face it sooner or later anyway; his mother’s birthday was next week.

“A riding accident,” he answered. “She went out without a helmet. Got thrown from Jamie’s back and landed wrong. Blunt trauma to the head.” And that was all he was going to say on _that_ subject.

She laid her hand on top of his and gently squeezed. “Oh, Michael. I’m so sorry. That must have been horrible for you. Did you witness it?”

“No. I was away at summer camp.”

She expressed her condolences again, and then there was nothing left to say. Another gaping silence descended over them like a depressing storm cloud. She finally broke it with a very astute observation. “You seem a little tense today.”

Relieved for the change of subject, he agreed with her. “It was a shit week.”

She tucked her legs underneath her body and moved closer, her voice softening with concern. “What happened?”

His knee-jerk reaction was to clam up, because he’d never been able to trust anyone with his personal business before. But, he’d never realized until now just how liberating an NDA could be. He snorted. “What _didn’t_ happen would be the better question.”

She smiled sadly. “Well, maybe start with the least bad thing and work your way up?”

Nothing that had happened last week was the ‘least bad’ thing; they were _all_ equally horrible. He lifted his ass up off the sofa just enough to pull his wallet out of his back pocket, which finally dislodged Mr. Darcy from his crotch. “I found out Wednesday that we have our first public event two Saturdays from today,” he said, fighting the urge to groan, and offering her a bank envelope with fifteen-hundred dollars in cash inside. “It’s the annual Catholic Charities Volunteer Recognition Dinner in San Gabriel. My father is a huge supporter, so I’m expected to be there. It’s black tie so splurge on something really nice. Let me know if you need more money.”

She accepted the envelope with a brilliant smile. “Thanks! It sounds like fun. I can’t wait!”

 _Poor thing is completely clueless._ It was going to be entertaining witnessing her epiphany when she realized how superficial these immigrant charity soirees really were.

“That wasn’t so bad. What else happened?”

Mr. Darcy picked that moment to leap back onto his crotch again. He sighed in reaction and also because of what he was about to say. He was going to insert Daniel’s name into yet another of their conversations, but he didn’t have a choice. There was no one else he could share this with.

“It’s Daniel. I’m really worried about him.”

A frown. “Why?”

She instantly transformed from a clueless fake girlfriend into an I’m-in-Therapist-Mode-Now counselor. He suppressed a defeated sigh at having one too many shrinks in his life and pushed on, telling her about Daniel’s uncharacteristic behavior over the last few days.

“We eat lunch together every day and talk about anything and everything. But this past week he was really quiet, which is odd for him because he’s normally very outgoing. I asked him what was going on, but all he said was that he was fine. I tried all week to get him to open up to me, but I got nowhere.”

“What do _you_ think it is?” she asked, her gaze intent and curious.

On impulse, he stroked Mr. Darcy’s head and was rewarded with a contented purr. No signs (yet) of the inherent hatred he’d experienced with all his other past feline interactions, which was mystifying.

“I have no idea. I was awake half the night last night thinking about it when I suddenly realized I don’t really know anything substantive about Daniel. I know his basic biographical information, his work history, that he’s a gifted artist, that he’s openly gay, but beyond that, nothing. You know what I mean?”

She nodded, but said nothing—the devious method all therapists used to get their patients to continuing blabbing.

“I also realized that when we talk for any length of time, he always manages to steer our conversations away from himself. He’s very good at that. I’ve confided things to him and he’s told me nothing in return. I’m trying to do this friendship thing with him, but he’s not even trying to meet me halfway. I guess he doesn’t trust me.”

She sighed and patted his arm sympathetically. Surprisingly, he didn’t cringe like he usually did at that kind of contact.

“Psych majors can be weird that way, especially therapists. Some are very open about their personal lives, but others can be very private and guarded. Sounds like Daniel might be the latter. Just don’t give up on him, Michael. Be there, be supportive, offer to help, even if it’s refused. Sometimes, just the knowledge that somebody’s there if you need them can make all the difference.”

Good advice, but just being an inert lump of support felt too much like helplessness to him. He was going to have to actually _do_ something concrete to earn Daniel’s trust.

“Anything else?” she asked.

Only the worst thing that could happen to a guy in the middle of trying to secure his financial future with a fake marriage so he could comfortably break all ties with his control-freak father. Worst timing ever.

“Friday afternoon I was informed that a former employee has filed a civil suit against GEM for wrongful termination because of discrimination. Several higher-ups, along with me and my father, were named in the suit.”

Her eyes widened with shock. He grimaced at what was coming. “Is there a possibility you could lose?”

“Wrongful termination suits are very hard to win because most of the evidence is circumstantial. They have to prove illegal motive,” he explained, hoping the confidence in his voice would translate to confidence in front of a judge. “We’re just starting the discovery process now, and our attorneys can easily delay that process for at least six months, even up to a year. That’ll give us more time to get our defense in order.”

That had to be one of the best Dance-Around-The-Question-Without-Answering-It performances of his life. He should get an award.

Her eyes narrowed. “Did GEM discriminate against this person, Michael??”

He suddenly envied Mr. Darcy, blissfully sleeping the afternoon away on a random lap without a care in the world. It was weird how a person’s life could change from fairly content to all fucked up literally overnight. He gently scratched Darcy’s neck and got another contented purr in response. The rest of this annoying day aside, this pretentious little furball was almost becoming likeable. 

“I’m sorry. Legally, I can’t give you any more details than that.”

She managed a weak smile, but a tiny frown still lingered. “I understand.”

_And now for the icing on the sick cake. . ._

“It gets worse,” he said, sighing. “The case originated out of the Office of the Attorney General, the Sexual Orientation Discrimination Division, where Daniel’s father is one of the lead attorneys. He’s handling the case.”

“Oh shiiiit,” she said softly.

He didn’t need to explain further; she got it. The decision he had to make now was whether to tell Daniel or not. If he did, what would it do to their friendship? Was it even fair to put Daniel in the middle of this? If he didn’t tell him, and Daniel’s father told him instead, he’d look like he was keeping secrets from his friend. If David Hart was as ethical as everyone said, he wouldn’t say anything about it to his son—he’d keep Daniel out of this, keep his work and personal life completely separate. But would he?? For the first time in recent memory, he had no idea what to do.

After yet another awkward silence that seemed to stretch on forever, she suddenly became animated, pulling her lithe legs beneath her like a human pretzel, a mischievous smile on her lips. “I have an idea to get all that tension out of you.”

He gently pushed Mr. Darcy off his lap. _Sorry, little dude._ He met her mischievous smile with a horny smirk of his own.  “A blow job would be nice.”

She actually giggled—a girlish sound he’d never heard from her before. “I’m sure it would be, but I’ve got something better than sex.” She jumped up, pushing one side of her hair that had fallen over her face behind one ear, and stood over him, grinning, offering him her hand again. “Come on. Let’s go to my bedroom and get you all fixed up.”

_Better than sex?? Uh huh. Sure. . ._

Although he had no desire to kiss her (and never had), he had no problem with her cupping those full lips tightly around the head of his cock, his fingers tangled in her hair, pulling it hard as she sucked him off. Still smirking (and sure he was going to get that blow job no matter what she said), he took her hand and followed her through the maze of clutter to the bedroom.

She gestured for him to lay down on the bed, which was actually possible because it was the only flat surface of an appreciable size that wasn’t completely covered with junk. For some odd reason, he found the idea of his submissive ordering him around today to be mildly amusing. He’d make her pay for it later, of course (he’d actually acted on one of his inner musings and ordered a hog-tie system. It was due to ship next week), but for now, he was a little intrigued. He stretched out and tugged his pleasantly tingling cock into a more comfortable position inside his jeans.

“Take off your shoes and socks,” she ordered, a bit too arrogantly for his taste.

 _What??_ He frowned and lifted his head, suddenly a little less amused than he was a few moments ago. “You in to sucking toes now, instead of cocks?”

She snickered and ignored him. She didn’t even wait for him to do it; she untied his sneakers and pulled off his socks while he imagined her smarmy ass tied up and gagged, begging him with her eyes to loosen the straps while he laughed uproariously and beat her with a riding crop.

“Ever heard of zone therapy?” she asked, jolting him out of his fantasy.

He propped himself up on his elbows to see her squirting some lotion onto her hands. “No. Should I have?”

“You may also have heard it called reflexology,” she explained. “Now, lay back down.”

That word—reflexology—triggered a memory of something he’d read in some self-help book (he couldn’t remember the title) a long, long time ago. The details eluded him, though.

“It’s an ancient Chinese therapy that uses acupressure point massage on the feet to alleviate stress and promote general wellness. It’s a little hobby of mine.” A seductive smile. “One of many.”

 _Great._ Now he could add “Foot Fetish” to the list of things he found odd about her.

But after a few minutes of her probing fingers moving meticulously over his feet, kneading and massaging, he forgot all about the blow job. He closed his eyes and just enjoyed the hell out of it, the overwhelming stress of the past week evaporating into thin air. Every now and then a soft moan escaped his throat when she hit a sore spot on his foot but, overall, he hadn’t felt this relaxed since he’d tied up and hit a woman for the very first time over three years ago. Ironically, that woman had also been Anne.

Some unknown time later, through the dense fog of complete and utter relaxation, he realized she’d stopped.

“How do you feel?” she asked softly.

A low, gutteral moan was all he could manage.

Next thing he knew, she was beside him, gently guiding his limp arm around her shoulder as she lay down and snuggled her body up against his. With her head on his shoulder, waves of her brunette hair spread out across his chest, and one of her legs draped across one of his, he vaguely wondered why he was allowing this, and also why his stupid central nervous system hadn’t sent him into the Tenth Circle of Hell yet, like it had last weekend.

 _Fuck it._ He stopped thinking and drifted off to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Three o’clock found him standing at her front door—empty lunch containers in his hands, a purring Mr. Darcy attached to his ankles—wondering what the hell had just happened. He’d slept an hour and a half, and had woken up with a sleeping Anne still curled up against him on one side, and the black-and-white furball curled up against him on the other. And he’d actually liked it.

“I have another idea,” she said, smiling up at him with that doe-eyed look that had always curdled his lunch in the past. “I think we should just let this whole PDA thing develop naturally between us. We held hands a lot today, and that’s a really good first step. Let’s just see what happens, okay?”

The last remaining molecule of stress still lingering in his body popped out of existence. Relieved, he added his agreement. He hadn’t mentioned it before, but the whole rehearsing PDA thing had also contributed to his stress level the past week. He opened his mouth to attempt some farewell niceties when she interrupted.

“And we knocked out our aftercare issues today, too. Two birds with one stone.”

 _Aftercare?_ “What are you talking about??”

“Number four in our contract about being a better dominant?” She chuckled at his annoyed frown. How many times was she going to hit him over the head with that thing?? “We talked about aftercare last weekend, Michael, remember? If you’re agreeable, snuggling with you immediately after a scene can be my aftercare and, later, a foot massage can be yours.” She flashed him another seductive smile and added a sensuous purr to her voice. “Your reward for a job well done.”

So, just let her curl up against him for a while, then let her massage the shit out of his feet? That was all she wanted out of this??  He’d envisioned much worse: tongue-swapping make out sessions with a side of groping thrown in, disgusting vanilla sex, or forcing him to listen to her mundane female problems every day—of which he had zero interest.

His smile was just as bright and genuine as hers, for once. “I’m totally agreeable to that.”

“That’s great!” She detached Mr. Darcy from his legs so he could leave. “I hope next week is better for you, Michael. More _productive_.”

He glanced over her shoulder to that inspirational quote, her life’s motto. “I hope the same for you, too.”

She mentioned he could call her next week, anytime, if things got bad again and he needed to talk. He told her he would. And he was a little shocked to realize that he actually meant it.

As he stepped off her porch to head home, he finally accepted that this fake girlfriend idea of Daniel’s was actually going to work. The next three years were going to fly by and then he’d be filthy, stinking rich, severing his father’s steel umbilical for good.  All it was going to take on his part was a little private, after-bondage cuddling and some convincing acting in public. Now if he could just make it through this stupid lawsuit with his portfolio intact, _and_ figure out how to get Daniel to confide in him, everything would be perfect. 

 

**ANNE'S SHIRT FULL OF HOLES**

** **

 

**GETTING CAT HAIR OFF _THIS_ OUTFIT SHOULD BE FUN. . . **

** **


End file.
